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STATE  NORMAL  SCHOOL, 

bOS  AfiCBbBS,  CAb. 


DREAMTHORP 


A    BOOK    OF    ESSAYS    WRITTEN    IN 
THE    COUNTRY 


u 


BY 

ALEXANDER    SMITH 


ILLUSTRATED 


BOSTON 
JOSEPH    KNIGHT   COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS 


SEntbErsttg  Press: 
John  Wilson  and  Son,  Cambridge,   U.S.A. 


-54-53 


^^g^^° 


Page 

'Dreamthorp I 

On  the  Writing  of  Essays       25 

Of  Death  and  the  Fear  of  Dying      .    .  55 

William  Dunbar 79 

A  Lark's  Flight m 

Christmas '35 

Mkn  of  Letters 163 

On  the  Importance  of  a  Man  to  Himself  199 

A  Shelf  in  My  Bookcase 223 

Geoffrey  Chaucer 251 

Books  and  Gardens 293 

On  Vagabonds 3'9 


rw^j^^fT  matters  not  to  relate  how  or 
■•*r^^  ^  when  I  became  a  denizen  of 
a^^^i  Dreainthorp  ;  it  will  be  sufificient 
^^^^^  to  say  that  I  am  not  a  born 
native,  but  that  I  came  to  reside  in  it  a  good 
while  ago  now.  The  several  towns  and  vil- 
lages in  which,  in  my  time,  I  have  pitched  a 
tent  did  not  please,  for  one  obscure  reason 
or  another :  this  one  was  too  large,  t'other 
too  small ;  but  when,  on  a  summer  even- 
ing about  the  hour  of  eight,  I  first  beheld 
Dreamthorp,  with  its  westward-looking  win- 
dows painted  by  sunset,  its  children  playing 
in  the  single  straggling  street,  the  mothers 
knitting  at  the  open  doors,  the  fathers 
standing  about  in  long  white  blouses,  chat- 
ting or  smoking;  the  great  tower  of  the 
ruined  castle  rising  high  into  the  rosy  air, 
with  a  whole  troop  of  swallows  —  by  distance 
made  as  small  as  gnats  —  skimming  about  its 
rents  and  fissures ;  —  when  I  first  beheld  all 


2  Dreamthorp. 

this,  I  felt  instinctively  that  my  knapsack 
might  be  taken  off  my  shoulders,  that  my 
tired  feet  might  wander  no  more,  that  at 
last,  on  the  planet,  I  had  found  a  home. 
From  that  evening  I  have  dwelt  here,  and 
the  only  journey  I  am  like  now  to  make,  is 
the  very  inconsiderable  one,  so  far  at  least 
as  distance  is  concerned,  from  the  house  in 
which  I  live  to  the  graveyard  beside  the 
ruined  castle.  There,  with  the  former  in- 
habitants of  the  place,  I  trust  to  sleep 
quietly  enough,  and  nature  will  draw  over 
our  heads  her  coverlet  of  green  sod,  and 
tenderly  tuck  us  in,  as  a  mother  her  sleep- 
ing ones,  so  that  no  sound  from  the  world 
shall  ever  reach  us,  and  no  sorrow  trouble 
us  any  more. 

The  village  stands  far  inland ;  and  the 
streams  that  trot  through  the  soft  green 
valleys  all  about  have  as  little  knowledge 
of  the  sea  as  the  three-years'  child  of  the 
storms  and  passions  of  manhood.  The  sur- 
rounding country  is  smooth  and  green,  full 
of  undulations ;  and  pleasant  country  roads 
strike  through  it  in  every  direction,  bound 
for  distant  towns  and  villages,  yet  in  no 
hurry  to  reach  them.  On  these  roads  the 
lark  in  summer  is  continually  heard  ;  nests 
are  plentiful  in  the  hedges  and  dry  ditches ; 


Drcamthorp.  3 

and  on  the  grassy  banks,  and  at  the  feet  of 
the  bowed  dikes,  the  blue-eyed  speedwell 
smiles  its  benison  on  the  passing  wayfarer. 
On  these  roads  you  may  walk  for  a  year 
and  encounter  nothing  more  remarkable 
than  the  country  cart,  troops  of  tawny 
children  from  the  woods,  laden  with  prim- 
roses, and  at  long  intervals — for  people  in 
this  district  live  to  a  ripe  age  —  a  black 
funeral  creeping  in  from  some  remote  ham- 
let ;  and  to  this  last  the  people  reverently 
doff  their  hats  and  stand  aside.  Death  does 
not  walk  about  here  often,  but  when  he 
does,  he  receives  as  much  respect  as  the 
squire  himself.  Everything  round  one  is 
unhurried,  quiet,  moss-grown,  and  orderly. 
Season  follows  in  the  track  of  season,  and 
one  year  can  hardly  be  distinguished  from 
another.  Time  should  be  measured  here  by 
the  silent  dial,  rather  than  by  the  ticking 
clock,  or  by  the  chimes  of  the  church. 
Dreamthorp  can  boast  of  a  respectable  an- 
tiquity, and  in  it  the  trade  of  the  builder  is 
unknown.  Ever  since  I  remember,  not  a 
single  stone  has  been  laid  on  the  top  of 
another.  The  castle,  inhabited  now  by  jack- 
daws and  starlings,  is  old  ;  the  chapel  which 
adjoins  it  is  older  still ;  and  the  lake  behind 
both,  and  in  which  their  shadows  sleep,  is,  I 


4  DrcamtJiorp. 

suppose,  as  old  as  Adam.  A  fountain  in  the 
market-place,  all  mouths  and  faces  and 
curious  arabesques,  —  as  dry,  however,  as 
the  castle  moat,  —  has  a  tradition  connected 
with  it ;  and  a  great  noble  riding  through 
the  street  one  day  several  hundred  years 
ago,  was  shot  from  a  window  by  a  man 
whom  he  had  injured.  The  death  of  this 
noble  is  the  chief  link  which  connects  the 
place  with  authentic  history.  The  houses 
are  old,  and  remote  dates  may  yet  be  deci- 
phered on  the  stones  above  the  doors  ;  the 
apple-trees  are  mossed  and  ancient ;  count- 
less generations  of  sparrows  have  bred 
in  the  thatched  roofs,  and  thereon  have 
chirped  out  their  lives.  In  every  room  of 
the  place  men  have  been  born,  men  have 
died.  On  Dreamthorp  centuries  have  fallen, 
and  have  left  no  more  trace  than  have  last 
winter's  snowflakes.  This  commonplace 
sequence  and  flowing  on  of  life  is  immeas- 
urably affecting.  That  winter  morning  when 
Charles  lost  his  heatl  in  front  of  the  banquet- 
ing-hall  of  his  own  palace,  the  icicles  hung 
from  the  eaves  of  the  houses  here,  and  the 
clown  kicked  the  snowballs  from  his  clouted 
shoon,  and  thought  but  of  his  supper  when, 
at  three  o'clock,  the  red  sun  set  in  the  purple 
mist.    On  that  Sunday  in  June  while  AV'aterloo 


Drcamthorp.  5 

was  going  on,  the  gossips,  after  morning  ser- 
vice, stood  on  the  country  roads  discussing 
agricultural  prospects,  without  the  slightest 
suspicion  that  the  day  passing  over  their 
heads  would  be  a  famous  one  in  the  calendar. 
Battles  have  been  fought,  kings  have  died,  his- 
tory has  transacted  itself;  but,  all  unheeding 
and  untouched,  Dreamthorp  has  watched 
apple-trees  redden,  and  wheat  ripen,  and 
smoked  its  pipe,  and  quaffed  its  mug  of  beer, 
and  rejoiced  over  its  new-born  children,  and 
with  proper  solemnity  carried  its  dead  to  the 
churchyard.  As  I  gaze  on  the  village  of  my 
adoption  I  think  of  many  things  very  far  re- 
moved, and  seem  to  get  closer  to  them.  The 
last  setting  sun  that  Shakspeare  saw  reddened 
the  windows  here,  and  struck  warmly  on  the 
faces  of  the  hinds  coming  home  from  the 
fields.  The  mighty  storm  that  raged  while 
Cromwell  lay  a-dying  made  all  the  oak- 
woods  groan  round  about  here,  and  tore 
the  thatch  from  the  very  roofs  I  gaze  upon. 
When  I  think  of  this,  I  can  almost,  so  to 
speak,  lay  my  hand  on  Shakspeare  and  on 
Cromwell.  These  poor  walls  were  contem- 
poraries of  both,  and  I  find  something  affect- 
ing in  the  thought.  The  mere  soil  is,  of 
course,  far  older  than  either,  but  //  does  not 
touch  one  in  the  same  way.  A  wall  is  the 
creation  of  a  human  hand,  the  soil  is  not. 


6  Dreamthorp. 

This  place  suits  my  whim,  and  I  Uke  it 
better  year  after  year.  As  with  everything 
else,  since  I  began  to  love  it  I  find  it  gradu- 
ally growing  beautiful.  Dreamthorp  —  a 
castle,  a  chapel,  a  lake,  a  straggling  strip  of 
gray  houses,  with  a  blue  film  of  smoke  over 
all  —  lies  embosomed  in  emerald.  Summer, 
with  its  daisies,  runs  up  to  every  cottage 
door.  From  the  little  height  where  I  am 
now  sitting,  I  see  it  beneath  me.  Nothing 
could  be  more  peaceful.  The  wind  and  the 
birds  fly  over  it.  A  passing  sunbeam  makes 
brilliant  a  white  gable-end,  and  brings  out  the 
colours  of  the  blossomed  apple-tree  beyond, 
and  disappears.  I  see  figures  in  the  street, 
but  hear  them  not.  The  hands  on  the 
church  clock  seem  always  pointing  to  one 
hour.  Time  has  fallen  asleep  in  the  after- 
noon sunshine.  I  make  a  frame  of  my 
fingers,  and  look  at  my  picture.  On  the 
walls  of  the  next  Academy's  Exhibition  will 
hang  nothing  half  so  beautiful  ! 

My  village  is,  I  think,  a  special  favourite 
of  summer's.  Every  window-sill  in  it  she 
touches  with  colour  and  fragrance ;  every- 
where she  wakens  the  drowsy  murmurs  of 
the  hives ;  every  place  she  scents  with  apple- 
blossom.  Traces  of  her  hand  are  to  be  seen 
on  the    weir   beside    the    ruined    mill ;   and 


Dreamtliorp.  7 

even  the  canal,  along  which  the  barges  come 
and  go,  has  a  great  white  water-lily  asleep 
on  its  olive-coloured  face.  Never  was  velvet 
on  a  monarch's  robe  so  gorgeous  as  the. 
green  mosses  that  be-ruff  the  roofs  of  farm 
and  cottage,  when  the  sunbeam  slants  on 
them  antl  goes.  The  old  road  out  towards 
the  common,  and  the  hoary  dikes  that  might 
have  been  built  in  the  reign  of  Alfred,  have 
not  been  forgotten  by  the  generous  adorning 
season ;  for  every  fissure  has  its  mossy  cushion, 
and  the  old  blocks  themselves  are  washed  by 
the  loveliest  gray-green  lichens  in  the  world, 
and  the  large  loose  stones  lying  on  the 
ground  have  gathered  to  themselves  the 
peacefulest  mossy  coverings.  Some  of  these 
have  not  been  disturbed  for  a  century. 
Summer  has  adorned  my  village  as  gaily,  and 
taken  as  much  pleasure  in  the  task,  as  the 
people  of  old,  when  Elizabeth  was  queen, 
took  in  the  adornment  of  the  May-pole 
against  a  summer  festival.  And,  just  think, 
not  only  Dreamthorp,  but  every  English 
village  she  has  made  beautiful  after  one 
fashion  or  another  —  making  vivid  green  the 
hill  slope  on  which  straggling  white  Welsh 
hamlets  hang  right  opposite  the  sea ;  drown- 
ing in  apple-blossom  the  red  Sussex  ones  in 
the  fat  valley.     And  think,  once  more,  every 


8  Dreanithorp. 

spear  of  grass  in  England  she  has  touched 
with  a  Uvelier  green  ;  the  crest  of  every  bird 
she  has  burnished  ;  every  old  wall  between 
the  four  seas  has  received  her  mossy  and 
licheny  attentions ;  every  nook  in  every 
forest  she  has  sown  with  pale  flowers,  every 
marsh  she  has  dashed  with  the  fires  of  the 
marigold.  And  in  the  wonderful  night  the 
moon  knows,  she  hangs  —  the  planet  on 
which  so  many  millions  of  us  fight,  and  sin, 
and  agonise,  and  die  —  a  sphere  of  glow- 
worm light. 

Having  discoursed  so  long  about  Dream - 
thorp,  it  is  but  fair  that  I  should  now  intro- 
duce you  to  her  lions.  These  are,  for  the 
most  part,  of  a  commonplace  kind;  and  I 
am  afraid  that,  if  you  wish  to  find  romance 
in  them,  you  must  bring  it  with  you.  I 
might  speak  of  the  old  church-tower,  or  of 
the  church-yard  beneath  it,  in  which  the 
village  holds  its  dead,  each  resting-place 
marked  by  a  simple  stone,  on  which  is  in- 
scribed the  name  and  age  of  the  sleeper, 
and  a  Scripture  text  beneath,  in  which  live 
our  hopes  of  immortality.  But,  on  the  whole, 
perhaps  it  will  be  better  to  begin  with  the 
canal,  which  wears  on  its  olive-coloured  face 
the  big  white  water-lily  already  chronicled. 
Such  a  secluded    place  is  Dreamthorp  that 


Dream  thorp.  g 

the  railway  does  not  come  near,  antl  the 
canal  is  the  only  thing  that  connects  it  with 
the  world.  It  stands  high,  and  from  it  the 
undulating  country  may  be  seen  stretching 
away  into  the  gray  of  distance,  with  hills 
and  woods,  and  stains  of  smoke  which  mark 
the  sites  of  villages.  Every  now  and  then  a 
horse  comes  staggering  along  the  towing- 
path,  trailing  a  sleepy  barge  filled  with 
merchandise.  A  quiet,  indolent  life  these 
bargemen  lead  in  the  summer  days.  One 
lies  stretched  at  his  length  on  the  sun-heated 
plank  ;  his  comrade  sits  smoking  in  the  little 
dog-hutch,  which  I  suppose  he  calls  a  cabin. 
Silently  they  come  and  go ;  silently  the 
wooden  bridge  lifts  to  let  them  through. 
The  horse  stops  at  the  bridge-house  for  a 
drink,  and  there  I  like  to  talk  a  Httle  with 
the  men.  They  serve  instead  of  a  news- 
paper, and  retail  with  great  willingness  the 
news  they  have  picked  up  in  their  progress 
from  town  to  town.  I  am  told  they  some- 
times marvel  who  the  old  gentleman  is  who 
accosts  them  from  beneath  a  huge  umbrella 
in  the  sun,  and  that  they  think  him  either 
very  wise  or  very  foolish.  Not  in  the  least 
unnatural!  We  are  great  friends,  I  believe 
—  evidence  of  which  they  occasionally  ex- 
hibit by  requesting  me  to  disburse  a  trifle 


lo  DrCiDH  thorp. 

for  drink- money.  This  canal  is  a  great  haunt 
of  mine  of  an  evening.  The  water  hardly 
invites  one  to  bathe  in  it,  and  a  delicate 
stomach  might  suspect  the  flavour  of  the  eels 
caught  therein  ;  yet,  to  my  thinking,  it  is  not 
in  the  least  destitute  of  beauty.  A  barge 
trailing  up  through  it  in  the  sunset  is  a 
pretty  sight  ;  and  the  heavenly  crimsons 
and  purples  sleep  quite  lovingly  upon  its 
glossy  ripples.  Nor  does  the  evening  star 
disdain  it,  for  as  I  walk  along  I  see  it  mir- 
rored therein  as  clearly  as  in  the  waters  of 
the  Mediterranean  itself. 

The  old  castle  and  chapel  already  alluded 
to  are,  perhaps,  to  a  stranger,  the  points  of 
attraction  in  Dreamthorp.  Back  from  the 
houses  is  the  lake,  on  the  green  sloping 
banks  of  which,  with  Ijroken  windows  and 
tombs,  the  ruins  stand.  As  it  is  noon,  and 
the  weather  is  warm,  let  us  go  and  sit  on  a 
turret.  Here,  on  these  very  steps,  as  old 
ballads  tell,  a  queen  sat  once,  day  after  day, 
looking  southward  for  the  light  of  returning 
spears.  I  bethink  me  that  yesterday,  no 
further  gone,  I  went  to  visit  a  consumptive 
shoemaker ;  seated  here  I  can  single  out  his 
very  house,  nay,  the  very  window  of  the 
room  in  which  he  is  lying.  On  that  straw 
roof  might   the   raven   alight,    and    fla])    his 


Dreamthorp.  1 1 

sable  wings.  There,  at  this  moment,  is  the 
supreme  tragedy  being  enacted.  A  woman 
is  weeping  there,  and  Httle  children  are  look- 
ing on  with  a  sore  bewilderment.  Before 
nightfall  the  poor  peaked  f;ice  of  the  bowed 
artisan  will  have  gathered  its  ineffable  peace, 
and  the  widow  will  be  led  away  from  the 
bedside  by  the  tenderness  of  neighbours,  and 
the  cries  of  the  orphan  brood  will  be  stilled. 
And  yet  this  present  indubitable  suffering 
and  loss  does  not  touch  me  like  the  sorrow  of 
the  woman  of  the  ballad,  the  phantom  prob- 
ably of  a  minstrel's  brain.  The  shoemaker 
will  be  forgotten  —  I  shall  be  forgotten  ;  and 
long  after,  visitors  will  sit  here  and  look  out 
on  the  landscape  and  murmur  the  simple 
lines.  But  why  do  death  and  dying  obtrude 
themselves  at  the  present  moment  ?  On  the 
turret  opposite,  about  the  distance  of  a  gun- 
shot, is  as  pretty  a  sight  as  eye  could  wish 
to  see.  Two  young  people,  strangers  appar- 
ently, have  come  to  visit  the  ruin.  Neither 
the  ballad  queen,  nor  the  shoemaker 
down  yonder,  whose  respirations  are  getting 
shorter  and  shorter,  touches  them  in  the  least. 
They  are  merry  and  happy,  and  the  gray- 
beard  turret  has  not  the  heart  to  thrust  a 
foolish  moral  upon  them.  They  would  not 
thank  him  if  he  did,  I  dare  say.    Perhaps  they 


12  Dreamthorp. 

could  not  understand  him.  Time  enough  ! 
Twenty  years  hence  they  will  be  able  to  sit 
down  at  his  feet,  and  count  griefs  with  him, 
and  tell  him  tale  for  tale.  Human  hearts 
get  ruinous  in  so  much  less  time  than  stone 
walls  and  towers.  See,  the  young  man  has 
thrown  himself  down  at  the  girl's  feet  on  a 
little  space  of  grass.  In  her  scarlet  cloak 
she  looks  like  a  blossom  springing  out  of  a 
crevice  on  the  ruined  steps.  He  gives  her 
a  flower,  and  she  bows  her  face  down  over 
it  almost  to  her  knees.  What  did  the  flower 
say?  Is  it  to  hide  a  blush?  He  looks 
delighted ;  and  I  almost  fancy  I  see  a  proud 
colour  on  his  brow.  As  I  gaze,  these  young 
people  make  for  me  a  perfect  idyl.  The 
generous,  ungrudging  sun,  the  melancholy 
ruin,  decked,  like  mad  Lear,  with  the  flowers 
and  ivies  of  forgetfulness  and  grief,  and  be- 
tween them,  sweet  and  evanescent,  human 
truth  and  love  ! 

Love  !  —  does  it  yet  walk  the  world,  or  is  it 
imprisoned  in  poems  and  romances?  Has 
not  the  circulating  library  become  the  sole 
home  of  the  passion?  Is  love  not  become 
the  exclusive  property  of  novelists  and  play- 
wrights, to  be  used  by  them  only  for  pro- 
fessional purposes?  Surely,  if  the  men  I 
see    are    lovers,   or  ever  have   been  lovers, 


Dira  III  thorp.  13 

they  would  be  nobler  than  they  are.  The 
knowledge  that  he  is  beloved  should  —  must 
make  a  man  tender,  gentle,  upright,  pure. 
While  yet  a  youngster  in  a  jacket,  I  can 
remember  falling  desperately  in  love  with  a 
young  lady  several  years  my  senior,  —  after 
the  fashion  of  youngsters  in  jackets.  Could 
I  have  fibbed  in  these  days?  Could  I  have 
betrayed  a  comrade  ?  Could  I  have  stolen 
eggs  or  callow  young  from  the  nest  ?  Could 
I  have  stood  quietly  by  and  seen  the  weak 
or  the  maimed  bullied?  Nay,  verily!  In 
these  absurd  days  she  lighted  up  the  whole 
world  for  me.  To  sit  in  the  same  room  with 
her  was  like  the  happiness  of  perpetual 
holiday ;  when  she  asked  me  to  run  a  mes- 
sage for  her,  or  to  do  any,  the  slightest, 
service  for  her,  I  felt  as  if  a  patent  of 
nobility  were  conferred  on  me.  1  kept  my 
passion  to  myself,  like  a  cake,  and  nibbled  it 
in  private.  Juliet  was  several  years  my 
senior,  and  had  a  lover  —  was,  in  point  of 
fact,  actually  engaged  ;  and,  in  looking  back, 
I  can  remember  I  was  too  much  in  love 
to  feel  the  slightest  twinge  of  jealousy.  I 
remember  also  seeing  Romeo  for  the  first 
time,  and  thinking  him  a  greater  man  than 
Cccsar  or  Napoleon.  The  worth  I  credited 
him  with,  the  cleverness,  the  goodness,  the 


14  Drcamthorp. 

everything !  He  awed  me  by  his  manner 
and  bearing.  He  accepted  that  girl's  love 
coolly  and  as  a  matter  of  course  :  it  put  him 
no  more  about  than  a  crown  and  sceptre  puts 
about  a  king.  What  I  would  have  given  my 
life  to  possess — being  only  fourteen,  it  was 
not  much  to  part  with  after  all  —  he  wore 
lightly,  as  he  wore  his  gloves  or  his  cane. 
It  did  not  seem  a  bit  too  good  for  him.  His 
self-possession  appalled  me.  If  I  had  seen 
him  take  the  sun  out  of  the  sky,  and  put  it 
into  his  breeches'  pocket,  I  don't  think  I 
should  have  been  in  the  least  degree  sur- 
prised. Well,  years  after,  when  I  had  dis- 
carded my  passion  with  my  jacket,  I  have 
assisted  this  middle-aged  Romeo  home  from 
a  roystering  wine-party,  and  heard  him 
hiccup  out  his  marital  annoyances,  with  the 
strangest  remembrances  of  old  times,  and 
the  strangest  deductions  therefrom.  Did 
that  man  with  the  idiotic  laugh  and  the 
blurred  utterance  ever  love  ?  Was  he  ever 
capable  of  loving?  I  protest  I  have  my 
doubts.  But  where  are  my  young  people? 
(ione  !  So  it  is  always.  We  begin  to  mora- 
lise and  look  wise,  and  Beauty,  who  is  some- 
thing of  a  coquette,  and  of  an  exacting  turn 
of  mind,  and  likes  attentions,  gets  disgusted 
with  our  wisdom  or  our  stupidity,  and  goes 
off  in  a  huff.     Let  the  baggage  go  ! 


Dream  thorp.  15 

The  ruined  chapel  adjoins  the  ruined 
castle  on  which  I  am  now  sitting,  and  is 
evidently  a  building  of  much  older  date.  It 
is  a  mere  shell  now.  It  is  quite  roofless, 
ivy  covers  it  in  part ;  the  stone  tracery  of 
the  great  western  window  is  yet  intact, 
but  the  coloured  glass  is  gone  with  the 
splendid  vestments  of  the  abbot,  the  fum- 
ing incense,  the  chanting  choirs,  and  the 
patient,  sad- eyed  monks,  who  muttered  Aves, 
shrived  guilt,  and  illuminated  missals.  Time 
was  when  this  place  breathed  actual  bene- 
dictions, and  was  a  home  of  active  peace. 
At  present  it  is  visited  only  by  the  stranger, 
and  delights  but  the  antiquary.  The  village 
people  have  so  little  respect  for  it,  that  they 
do  not  even  consider  it  haunted.  There 
are  several  tombs  in  the  interior  bearing 
knights'  escutcheons,  which  time  has  sadly 
defaced.  The  dust  you  stand  upon  is  noble. 
Earls  have  been  brought  here  in  dinted  mail 
from  battle,  and  earls'  wives  from  the  pangs 
of  child-bearing.  The  last  trumpet  will 
break  the  slumber  of  a  right  honourable 
company.  One  of  the  tombs  —  the  most 
perfect  of  all  in  point  of  preservation  —  I 
look  at  often,  and  try  to  conjecture  what 
it  commemorates.  With  all  my  fancies,  I 
can    get  no    further   than    the    old  story  of 


1 6  Dreamthorp. 

love  and  death.  There,  on  the  slab,  the 
white  figures  sleep ;  marble  hands,  folded 
in  prayer,  on  marble  breasts.  And  I  like  to 
think  that  he  was  brave,  she  beautiful ; 
that  although  the  monument  is  worn  by- 
time,  and  sullied  by  the  stains  of  the  weather, 
the  qualities  which  it  commemorates  —  hus- 
bandly and  wifely  affection,  courtesy,  courage, 
knightly  scorn  of  wrong  and  falsehood,  meek- 
ness, penitence,  charity  —  are  existing  yet 
somewhere,  recognisable  by  each  other. 
The  man  who  in  this  world  can  keep  the 
whiteness  of  his  soul,  is  not  likely  to  lose  it 
in  any  other. 

In  summer  I  spend  a  good  deal  of  time 
floating  about  the  lake.  The  landing-place 
to  which  my  boat  is  tethered  is  ruinous,  like 
the  chapel  and  palace,  and  my  embarkation 
causes  quite  a  stir  in  the  sleepy  little  village. 
Small  boys  leave  their  games  and  mud-pies, 
and  gather  round  in  silence  ;  they  have  seen 
me  get  off  a  hundred  times,  but  their  in- 
terest in  the  matter  seems  always  new.  Not 
unfrequently  an  idle  cobbler,  in  red  night- 
cap and  leathern  apron,  leans  on  a  broken 
stile,  and  honours  my  proceedings  with  his 
attention.  I  shoot  off,  and  the  human  knot 
dissolves.  The  lake  contains  three  islands, 
each    with    a   solitary   tree,    and   on   these 


Dreamthorp.  17 

islands  the  swans  breed.  I  feed  the  birds 
daily  with  bits  of  bread.  See,  one  comes 
gliding  towards  me,  with  superbly  arched 
neck,  to  receive  its  customary  alms  !  How 
wildly  beautiful  its  motions  !  How  haugh- 
tily it  begs  !  The  green  pasture  lands  run 
down  to  the  edge  of  the  water,  and  into  it  in 
the  afternoons  the  red  kine  wade  and  stand 
knee-deep  in  their  shadows,  surrounded  by 
troops  of  flies.  Patiently  the  honest  crea- 
tures abide  the  attacks  of  their  tormentors. 
Now  one  swishes  itself  with  its  tail,  —  now  its 
neighbour  flaps  a  huge  ear.  I  draw  my  oars 
alongside,  and  let  my  boat  float  at  its  own 
will.  The  soft  blue  heavenly  abysses,  the 
wandering  streams  of  vapour,  the  long 
beaches  of  rippled  clouds,  are  glassed  and 
repeated  in  the  lake.  Dreamthorp  is  silent 
as  a  picture,  the  voices  of  the  children  are 
mute ;  and  the  smoke  from  the  houses, 
the  blue  pillars  all  sloping  in  one  angle, 
float  upward  as  if  in  sleep.  Grave  and  stern 
the  old  castle  rises  from  its  emerald  banks, 
which  long  ago  came  down  to  the  lake  in 
terrace  on  terrace,  gay  with  fruits  and 
flowers,  and  with  stone  nymph  and  satyrs 
hid  in  every  nook.  Silent  and  empty 
enough  to-day  !  A  flock  of  daws  suddenly 
bursts    out    from    a    turret,   and   rountl   and 


1 8  Dreavithorp. 

round  they  wheel,  as  if  in  panic.  Has  some 
great  scandal  exploded?  Has  a  conspiracy 
been  discovered?  Has  a  revolution  broken 
out?  The  excitement  has  subsided,  and  one 
of  them,  perched  on  the  old  banner-staff, 
chatters  confidentially  to  himself  as  he,  side- 
ways, eyes  the  world  beneath  him.  Floating 
about  thus,  time  passes  swiftly,  for,  before  I 
know  where  1  am,  the  kine  have  withdrawn 
from  the  lake  to  couch  on  the  herbage, 
while  one  on  a  little  height  is  lowing  for 
the  milkmaid  and  her  pails.  Along  the  road 
I  see  the  labourers  coming  home  for  supper, 
while  the  sun  setting  behind  me  makes  the 
village  windows  blaze ;  and  so  I  take  out 
my  oars,  and  pull  leisurely  through  waters 
faintly  flushed  with  evening  colours. 

I  do  not  think  that  Mr.  Buckle  could  have 
written  his  "  History  of  CiviHzation "  in 
Dreamthorp,  because  in  it  books,  conversa- 
tion, and  the  other  appurtenances  of  intel- 
lectual life,  are  not  to  be  procured.  1  am 
acquainted  with  birds,  and  the  building  of 
nests  —  with  wild-flowers,  and  the  seasons  in 
which  they  blow,  —  but  with  the  big  world 
far  away,  with  what  men  and  women  are 
thinking,  and  doing,  and  saying,  I  am  ac- 
quainted only  through  the  Times,  and  the 
occasional    magazine    or    review,    sent    by 


Dreamthorp.  19 

friends  whom  I  have  not  looked  upon  for 
years,  but  by  whom,  it  seems,  I  am  not  yet 
forgotten.  The  village  has  but  few  intellec- 
tual wants,  and  the  intellectual  supply  is 
strictly  measured  by  the  demand.  Still  there 
is  something.  Down  in  the  village,  and 
opposite  the  curiously-carved  fountain,  is  a 
schoolroom  -which  can  accommodate  a  couple 
of  hundred  people  on  a  pinch.  There  are 
our  public  meetings  held.  Musical  entertain- 
ments have  been  given  there  by  a  single  per- 
former. In  that  schoolroom  last  winter  an 
American  biologist  terrified  the  villagers,  and, 
to  their  simple  understandings,  mingled  up 
the  next  world  with  this.  Now  and  again 
some  rare  bird  of  an  itinerant  lecturer  covers 
dead  walls  with  posters,  yellow  and  blue, 
and  to  that  schoolroom  we  flock  to  hear  him. 
His  rounded  periods  the  eloquent  gentleman 
devolves  amidst  a  respectful  silence.  His 
audience  do  not  understand  him,  but  they  see 
that  the  clergyman  does,  and  the  doctor  does ; 
and  so  they  are  content,  and  look  as  atten- 
tive and  wise  as  possible.  Then,  in  con- 
nexion with  the  schoolroom,  there  is  a 
public  library,  where  books  are  exchanged 
once  a  month.  This  library  is  a  kind  of 
Greenwich  Hospital  for  disabled  novels  and 
romances.     Each  of  these  books  has  been  in 


20  Diramthofp. 

the  wars  ;  some  are  unquestionable  antiques. 
The  tears  of  three  generations  have  fallen 
upon  their  dusky  pages.  The  heroes  and 
the  heroines  are  of  another  age  than  ours. 
Sir  Charles  Grandison  is  standing  with  his 
hat  under  his  arm.  Tom  Jones  plops  from 
the  tree  into  the  water,  to  the  infinite  dis- 
tress of  Sophia.  Moses  comes  home  from 
market  with  his  stock  of  shagreen  specta- 
cles. Lovers,  warriors,  and  villains,  —  as 
dead  to  the  present  generation  of  readers 
as  Cambyses,  —  are  weeping,  fighting,  and  in- 
triguing. These  books,  tattered  and  torn  as 
they  are,  are  read  with  delight  to-day.  The 
viands  are  celestial  if  set  forth  on  a  dingy 
table-cloth.  The  gaps  and  chasms  which 
occur  in  pathetic  or  perilous  chapters  are 
felt  to  be  personal  calamities.  It  is  with  a 
certain  feeling  of  tenderness  that  I  look 
upon  these  books ;  I  think  of  the  dead 
fingers  that  have  turned  over  the  leaves,  of 
the  dead  eyes  that  have  travelled  along  the 
lines.  An  old  novel  has  a  history  of  its 
own.  When  fresh  and  new,  and  before  it 
had  breathed  its  secret,  it  lay  on  my  lady's 
table.  She  killed  the  weary  day  with  it, 
and  when  night  came  it  was  placed  beneath 
her  pillow.  \i  the  seaside  a  couple  of 
foolish  heads  have  bent  over  it,  hands  have 


Dreatnthorp.  2 1 

touched  and  tingled,  and  it  has  heard  vows 
and  protestations  as  passionate  as  any  its 
pages  contained.  Coming  down  in  the 
world,  Cinderella  in  the  kitchen  has  blub- 
bered over  it  by  the  light  of  a  surreptitious 
candle,  conceiving  herself  the  while  the 
magnificent  Georgiana,  and  Lord  Mordaunt, 
Georgiana's  lover,  the  pot-boy  round  the 
corner.  Tied  up  with  many  a  dingy  brother, 
the  auctioneer  knocks  the  bundle  down  to 
the  bidder  of  a  few  pence,  and  it  finds  its 
way  to  the  quiet  cove  of  some  village 
library,  where  with  some  difficulty  —  as  if 
from  want  of  teeth  —  and  with  numerous  in- 
terruptions —  as  if  from  lack  of  memory  — 
it  tells  its  old  stories,  and  wakes  tears,  and 
blushes,  and  laughter  as  of  yore.  Thus  it 
spends  its  age,  and  in  a  few  years  it  will  be- 
come unintelligible,  and  then,  in  the  dust- 
bin, like  poor  human  mortals  in  the  grave, 
it  will  rest  from  all  its  labours.  It  is  impos- 
sible to  estimate  the  benefit  which  such 
books  have  conferred.  How  often  have 
they  loosed  the  chain  of  circumstance  ! 
What  unfamiliar  tears  —  what  unfamiliar 
laughter  they  have  caused  !  What  chivalry 
and  tenderness  they  have  infused  into 
rustic  loves !  Of  what  weary  hours  they 
have    cheated    and    beguiled   their  readers ! 


2  2  Dreamthorp. 

The  big,  solemn  history-books  are  in  ex- 
cellent preservation ;  the  story-books  are 
defaced  and  frayed,  and  their  out-of-elbo\vs, 
condition  is  their  pride,  and  the  best  justifi- 
cation of  their  existence.  They  are  tashed, 
as  roses  are,  by  being  eagerly  handled  and 
smelt.  I  observe,  too,  that  the  most  ancient 
romances  are  not  in  every  case  the  most 
severely  worn.  It  is  the  pace  that  tells  in 
horses,  men,  and  books.  There  are  Nestors 
wonderfully  hale ;  there  are  juveniles  in  a 
state  of  dilapidation.  One  of  the  youngest 
books,  "  The  Old  Curiosity  Shop,"  is  abso- 
lutely falling  to  pieces.  That  book,  like 
Italy,  is  possessor  of  the  fatal  gift ;  but 
happily,  in  its  case,  every  thing  can  be 
rectified  by  a  new  edition.  We  have  buried 
warriors  and  poets,  princes  and  queens,  but 
no  one  of  these  was  followed  to  the  grave 
by  sincerer  mourners  than  was  Little  Nell. 

Besides  the  itinerant  lecturer,  and  the 
permanent  library,  we  have  the  Sunday 
sermon.  These  sum  up  the  intellectual  aids 
and  furtherances  of  the  whole  place.  We 
have  a  church  and  a  chapel,  and  I  attend 
both.  The  Dreamthorp  people  are  Dis- 
senters, for  the  most  part ;  why,  I  never 
could  understand ;  because  dissent  implies 
a  certain  intellectual  effort.     But  Dissenters 


Dreamthorp.  23 

they  are,  and  Dissenters  they  are  likely  to 
remain.  In  an  ungainly  building,  filled  with 
hard  gaunt  pews,  without  an  organ,  without 
a  touch  of  colour  in  the  windows,  with  noth- 
ing to  stir  the  imagination  or  the  devotional 
sense,  the  simple  people  worship.  On  Sun- 
day, they  are  put  upon  a  diet  of  spiritual 
bread  and  water.  Personally,  I  should  de- 
sire more  generous  food.  But  the  labour- 
ing people  listen  attentively,  till  once  they 
fall  asleep,  and  they  wake  up  to  receive  the 
benediction  with  a  feeling  of  having  done 
their  duty.  They  know  they  ought  to  go  to 
chapel,  and  they  go.  I  go  likewise,  from 
habit,  although  I  have  long  ago  lost  the  power 
of  following  a  discourse.  In  my  pew,  and 
whilst  the  clergyman  is  going  on,  I  think  of 
the  strangest  things  —  of  the  tree  at  the 
window,  of  the  congregation  of  the  dead 
outside,  of  the  wheat-fields  and  the  corn- 
fields beyond  and  all  around.  And  the  odd 
thing  is,  that  it  is  during  sermon  only  that  my 
mind  flies  off  at  a  tangent  and  busies  itself 
with  things  removed  from  the  place  and  the 
circumstances.  Whenever  it  is  finished 
fancy  returns  from  her  wanderings,  and  I 
am  alive  to  the  objects  around  me.  The 
clergyman  knows  my  humour,  and  is  good 
Christian    enough    to    forgive    me ;    and    he 


24  Dreamthorp. 

smiles  good-humouredly  when  I  ask  him  to 
let  me  have  the  chapel  keys,  that  I  may 
enter,  when  in  the  mood,  and  preach  a 
sermon  to  myself.  To  ray  mind,  an  empty 
chapel  is  impressive  ;  a  crowded  one,  com- 
paratively a  commonplace  affair.  Alone,  I 
could  choose  my  own  text,  and  my  silent 
discourse  would  not  be  without  its  practical 
applications. 

An  idle  life  I  live  in  this  place,  as  the 
world  counts  it ;  but  then  I  have  the  satis- 
iaction  of  differing  from  the  world  as  to  the 
meaning  of  idleness.  A  windmill  twirling 
its  arms  all  doiy  is  admirable  only  when 
there  is  corn  to  grind.  Twirling  its  arms 
for  the  mere  barren  pleasure  of  twirling 
them,  or  for  the  sake  of  looking  busy,  does 
not  deserve  any  rapturous  paean  of  praise. 
I  must  be  made  happy  after  my  own  fashion, 
not  after  the  fashion  of  other  i)eople.  Here 
1  can  live  as  I  please,  here  I  can  throw  the 
reins  on  the  neck  of  my  whim.  Here  I  play 
with  my  own  thoughts ;  here  I  ripen  for  the 
Hrave. 


BA^i-QN 


HAVE  already  described  my  en- 
vironments and  my  mode  of  life, 
and  out  of  both  I  contrive  to 
extract  a  very  tolerable  amount 
ot  satisfaction.  Love  in  a  cottage,  with 
a  broken  window  to  let  in  the  rain,  is  not 
my  idea  of  comfort ;  no  more  is  Dignity, 
walking  forth  richly  clad,  to  whom  every 
head  uncovers,  every  knee  grows  supple. 
Bruin  in  winter-time  fondly  sucking  his  own 
paws,  loses  flesh ;  and  love,  feeding  upon 
itself,  dies  of  inanition.  Take  the  candle  of 
death  in  your  hand,  and  walk  through  the 
stately  galleries  of  the  world,  and  their 
splendid  furniture  and  array  are  as  the  tinsel 
armour  and  pasteboard  goblets  of  a  penny 
theatre ;  fame  is  but  an  inscription  on  a 
grave,  and  glory  the  melancholy  blazon  on 
a  coffin  lid.  We  argue  fiercely  about  happi- 
ness.      One    insists    that    she    is    found   in 


26  On  the    IFri/ifig  of  Essays. 

the  cottage  which  the  hawthorn  shades. 
Another  that  she  is  a  lady  of  fashion,  and 
treads  on  cloth  of  gold.  Wisdom,  listening 
to  both,  shakes  a  white  head,  and  considers 
that  "  a  good  deal  may  be  said  on  both 
sides.'' 

There  is  a  wise  saying  to  the  effect  that 
"  a  man  can  eat  no  more  than  he  can  hold." 
Every  man  gets  about  the  same  satisfaction 
out  of  life.  Mr.  Suddlechops,  the  barber  of 
Seven  Dials,  is  as  happy  as  Alexander  at  the 
head  of  his  legions.  The  business  of  the 
one  is  to  depopulate  kingdoms,  the  business 
of  the  other  to  reap  beards  seven  days  old ; 
but  their  relative  positions  do  not  affect  the 
question.  The  one  works  with  razors  and 
soa])-lather,  the  other  with  battle-cries  and 
well-greaved  Greeks.  The  one  of  a  Saturday 
night  counts  up  his  shabby  gains  and  grum- 
bles ;  the  other  on  his  Saturday  night  sits 
down  and  weeps  for  other  worlds  to  conquer. 
The  pence  to  Mr.  Suddlechops  are  as  impor- 
tant as  are  the  worlds  to  Alexander.  Every 
condition  of  life  has  its  peculiar  advantages, 
and  wisdom  points  these  out  and  is  contented 
with  them.     The  varlet  who  sang  — 

"  A  king  cannot  swagger 
Or  get  drunk  like  a  beggar. 
Nor  be  half  so  happy  as  I "  — 


On  the    IVrifin^  of  Essays.  27 

had  the  soul  of  a  philosopher  in  him.  The 
harshjiess  of  the  parlour  is  revenged  at  night 
in  the  servants'  hall.  The  coarse  rich  man 
rates  his  domestic,  but  there  is  a  thought  in 
the  domestic's  brain,  docile  and  respectful 
as  he  looks,  which  makes  the  matter  equal, 
which  would  madden  the  rich  man  if  he 
knew  it  —  make  him  wince  as  with  a  shrewd- 
est twinge  of  hereditary  gout.  For  insult  and 
degradation  are  not  without  their  peculiar 
solaces.  You  may  spit  upon  Shylock's  gaber- 
dine, but  the  day  comes  when  he  demands  hi,s 
pound  of  flesh  ;  e\'ery  blow,  every  insult,  not 
without  a  certain  satisfaction,  he  adds  to  the 
account  running  up  against  you  in  the  day- 
book and  ledger  of  his  hate  —  which  at  the 
proper  time  he  will  ask  you  to  discharge. 
Every  way  we  look  we  see  even-handed  na- 
ture administering  her  laws  of  compensation. 
Grandeur  has  a  heavy  tax  to  pay.  The  usur- 
per rolls  along  like  a  god,  surrounded  by  his 
guards.  He  dazzles  the  crowd  —  all  very 
fine ;  but  look  beneath  his  splendid  trap- 
pings and  you  see  a  shirt  of  mail,  and  be- 
neath that  a  heart  cowering  in  terror  of  an 
air-drawn  dagger.  Whom  did  the  memory  of 
Austerlitz  most  keenly  sting?  The  beaten 
emperor?  or  the  mighty  Napoleon,  dying  like 
an  untended  watch-fire  on  St.  Helena? 


28  On  the  Writing  of  Essays. 

Giddy  people  may  think  the  Hfe  I  lead 
here  staid  and  humdrum,  but  they  are  mis- 
taken. It  is  true,  I  hear  no  concerts,  save, 
those  in  which  the  thrushes  are  performers 
in  the  spring  mornings.  I  see  no  pictures, 
save  those  painted  on  the  wide  sky-canvas 
with  the  colours  of  sunrise  and  sunset.  I 
attend  neither  rout  nor  ball ;  I  have  no 
deeper  dissipation  than  the  tea-table  ;  I  hear 
no  more  exciting  scandal  than  quiet  village 
gossip.  Yet  I  enjoy  my  concerts  more  than 
I  would  the  great  London  ones.  I  like  the 
pictures  I  see,  and  think  them  better  painted, 
too,  than  those  which  adorn  the  walls  of  the 
Royal  Academy ;  and  the  village  gossip  is 
more  after  my  turn  of  mind  than  the  scan- 
dals that  convulse  the  clubs.  It  is  wonder- 
ful how  the  whole  world  reflects  itself  in 
the  simple  village  life.  The  people  around 
me  are  full  of  their  own  affairs  and  interests  ; 
were  they  of  imperial  magnitude,  they  could 
not  be  excited  more  strongly.  Farmer  Wor- 
thy is  anxious  about  the  next  market ;  the 
likelihood  of  a  fall  in  the  price  of  butter  and 
eggs  hardly  allows  him  to  sleep  o'  nights. 
The  village  doctor  —  happily  we  have  only 
one  —  skirrs  hither  and  thither  in  his  gig, 
as  if  man  could  neither  die  nor  be  born 
without  his    assistance.       He   is  continually 


071  the  Writing  of  Essays.  29 

standing  on  the  confines  of  existence,  wel- 
coming the  new-comer,  bidding  farewell  to 
the  goer-away.  And  the  robustious  fellow 
who  sits  at  the  head  of  the  table  when  the 
Jolly  Swillers  meet  at  the  Blue  Lion  on 
Wednesday  evenings  is  a  great  politician, 
sound  of  lung  metal,  and  wields  the  village 
in  the  taproom,  as  my  Lord  Palmerston 
wields  the  nation  in  the  House.  His  listen- 
ers think  him  a  wiser  personage  than  the 
Premier,  and  he  is  inclined  to  lean  to  that 
opinion  himself.  I  find  everything  here 
that  other  men  find  in  the  big  world.  Lon- 
don is  but  a  magnified  Dreamthorp. 

And  just  as  the  Rev.  Mr.  White  took  note 
of  the  ongoings  of  the  seasons  in  and  around 
Hampshire  Selborne,  watched  the  colonies 
of  the  rooks  in  the  tall  elms,  looked  after 
the  swallows  in  the  cottage  and  rectory 
eaves,  played  the  affectionate  spy  on  the 
private  lives  of  chaffinch  and  hedge-sparrow, 
was  eaves-dropper  to  the  solitary  cuckoo ; 
so  here  I  keep  eye  and  ear  open ;  take  note 
of  man,  woman,  and  child ;  find  many  a 
pregnant  text  imbedded  in  the  common- 
place of  village  life  ;  and,  out  of  what  I  see 
and  hear,  weave  in  my  own  room  my  essays 
as  solitary  as  the  spider  weaves  his  web  in 
the  darkened  corner.    The  essay,  as  a  literary 


30  On  the  IVn'fing  of  Essays. 

form,  resembles  the  lyric,  in  so  far  as  it  is 
moulded  by  some  central  mood  —  whimsical, 
serious,  or  satirical.  Give  the  iiiood,  and  the 
^  essay,  from  the  first  sentence"  to  the  last, 
grows  around  it  as  the  cocoon  grows  around 
the  silkworm.  The  essay-writer  is  a  char- 
tered libertine,  and  a  law  unto  himself.  A 
quick  ear  and  eye,  an  ability  to  discern  the 
infinite  suggestiveness  of  common  things,  a 
brooding  meditative  spirit,  are  all  that  the 
essayist  requires  to  start  business  with. 
Jacques,  in  "As  You  Like  It,"  had  the  mak- 
ings of  a  charming  essayist.  It  is  not  the 
essayist's  duty  to  inform,  to  build  pathways 
through  metaphysical  morasses,  to  cancel 
abuses,  any  more  than  it  is  the  duty  of  the 
poet  to  do  these  things.  Incidentally  he 
may  do  something  in  that  way,  just  as  the 
poet  may,  but  it  is  not  his  duty,  and  should 
not  be  expected  of  him.  Skylarks  are  prima- 
rily created  to  sing,  although  a  whole  choir 
of  them  may  be  baked  in  pies  and  brought 
to  table ;  they  were  born  to  make  music, 
although  they  may  incidentally  stay  the  pangs 
of  vulgar  hunger.  'J'he  essayist  is  a  kind  of 
poet  in  prose,  and  if  questioned  harshly  as 
to  his  uses,  he  might  be  unable  to  render  a 
better  apology  for  his  existence  than  a 
flower    might.     The    essay   should    be    pure 


On  the  IVriting  of  Essays.  31 

literature  as  the  poem  is  pure  literature. 
The,  essayist  wears  a  lance,  but  he  cares 
more  fiar  the  sharpness  of  its  point  than  for 
the  pennon  that  flutters  on  it,  than  for  the 
banner  of  the  captain  under  whom  he  serves. 
He  plays  with  death  as  Hamlet  plays  with 
Yorick's  skull,  and  he  reads  the  morals  — 
strangely  stern,  often,  for  such  fragrant 
lodging  —  which  are  folded  up  in  the  bosoms 
of  roses.  He  has  no  pride,  and  is  deficient 
in  a  sense  of  the  congruity  and  fitness  of 
things.  He  lifts  a  pebble  from  the  ground, 
and  puts  it  aside  more  carefully  than  any 
gem  ;  and  on  a  nail  in  a  cottage- door  he 
will  hang  the  mantle  of  his  thought,  heavily 
brocaded  with  the  gold  of  rhetoric.  He 
finds  his  way  into  the  Elysian'  fields  through 
portals  the  most  shabby  and  commonplace. 

The  essayist  plays  with  his  subject,  now 
whimsical,  now  in  grave,  now  in  melancholy 
mood.  He  lies  upon  the  idle  grassy  bank, 
like  Jacques,  letting  the  world  flow  past  him, 
and  from  this  thing  and  the  other  he  extracts 
his  mirth  and  his  moralities.  His  main 
gift  is  an  eye  to  discover  the  suggestiveness 
of  common_thin^  to  find  a  sermon  in  the 
most  unpromising  texts.  Beyond  the  vital 
hint,  the  first  step,  his  discourses  are  not 
beholden  to  their  titles.     Let   him  take  up 


32  On  the  Writing  of  Essays. 

the  most  trivial  subject,  and  it  will  lead  him 
away  to  the  great_(]iiestions  over  which  the 
serious  imagination  loves  to  brood,  —  fortune, 
mutability,  death,  —  just  as  inevitably  as  the 
runnel,  trickling  among  the  summer  hills, 
on  which  sheep  are  bleating,  leads  you  to 
the  sea ;  or  as,  turning  down  the  first  street 
you  come  to  in  the  city,  you  are  led  finally, 
albeit  by  many  an  intricacy,  out  into  the 
open  country,  with  its  waste  places  and  its 
woods,  where  you  are  lost  in  a  sense  of 
strangeness  and  solitariness.  The  world  is 
to  the  meditative  man  what  the  mulberry 
plant  is  to  the  silkworm.  The  essay- writer 
has  no  lack  of  subject-matter.  He  has  the 
day  that  is  passing  over  his  head ;  and,  if 
unsatisfied  with  that,  he  has  the  world's  six 
thousand  years  to  depasture  his  gay  or 
serious  humour  upon.  I  idle  away  my  time 
here,  and  I  am  finding  new  subjects  every 
hour.  Everything  I  see  or  hear  is  an  essay 
in  bud.  The  world  is  everywhere  whisper- 
ing essays,  and  one  need  only  be  the  world's 
amanuensis.  The  proverbial  expression 
which  last  evening  the  clown  dropped  as  he 
trudged  homeward  to  supper,  the  light  of 
the  setting  sun  on  his  face,  expands  before 
me  to  a  dozen  pages.  The  coffin  of  the 
pauper,  which  to-day  I  saw  carried  carelessly 


On  the  Writing  of  Essays.  TjZ 

along,  is  as  good  a  subject  as  the  funeral 
procession  of  an  emperor.  Craped  drum 
and  banner  add  notliing  to  death ;  penury 
and  disrespect  take  nothing  away.  Incon- 
tinently my  thought  moves  like  a  slow-paced 
hearse  with  sable  nodding  plumes.  Two 
rustic  lovers,  whispering  between  the  darken- 
ing hedges,  is  as  potent  to  project  my  mind 
into  the  tender  passion  as  if  I  had  seen 
Romeo  touch  the  cheek  of  Juliet  in  the 
moon-light  garden.  Seeing  a  curly-headed 
child  asleep  in  the  sunshine  before  a  cottage 
door  is  sufficient  excuse  for  a  discourse  on 
childhood  ;  quite  as  good  as  if  I  had  seen 
infant  Cain  asleep  in  the  lap  of  Eve  with 
Adam  looking  on.  A  lark  cannot  rise  to 
heaven  without  raising  as  many  thoughts  as 
there  are  notes  in  its  song.  Dawn  cannot 
pour  its  white  light  on  my  village  without 
starting  from  their  dim  lair  a  hundred  remi- 
niscences ;  nor  can  sunset  burn  above  yon- 
der trees  in  the  west  without  attracting  to 
itself  the  melancholy  of  a  lifetime,  ^^'hen 
spring  unfolds  her  green  leaves  I  would  be 
provoked  to  indite  an  essay  on  hope  and 
youth,  were  it  not  that  it  is  already  writ  in 
the  carols  of  the  birds ;  and  I  might  be 
tempted  in  autumn  to  improve  the  occa- 
sion, were  it  not  for  the  rustle  of  the  with- 


34  On  the  Waiting  of  Essays. 

ered  leaves  as  I  walk  through  the  woods. 
Compared  with  that  simple  music,  the 
saddest-cadenced  words  have  but  a  shallow 
meaning. 

The  essayist  who  feeds  his  thoughts  upon 
the  segment  of  the  world  which  surrounds 
him  cannot  avoid  being  an_egotist ;  but  then 
his  egotism  is  not  unpleasing."  ^If  he  be  with- 
out taint  of  boastfulness,  of  self- sufficiency, 
of  hungry  vanity,  the  world  will  not  press 
the  charge  home.  If  a  man  discourses  con- 
tinually of  his  wines,  his  plate,  his  titled 
acquaintances,  the  number  and  quality  of  his 
horses,  his  men-servants  and  maid- servants, 
he  must  discourse  very  skilfully  indeed  if  he 
escapes  being  called  a  coxcomb.  If  a  man 
speaks  of  death  —  tells  you  that  the  idea  of 
it  continually  haunts  him,  that  he  has  the 
most  insatiable  curiosity  as  to  death  and 
dying,  that  his  thought  mines  in  church- 
yards like  a  "demon-mole"  —  no  one  is 
specially  offended,  and  that  this  is  a  dull 
fellow  is  the  hardest  thing  likely  to  be  said 
of  him.  Only,  the  egotism  that  over- 
crows you  is  offensive,  that  exalts  trifles 
and  takes  pleasure  in  them,  that  suggests 
superiority  in  matters  of  equipage  and 
furniture ;  and  the  egotism  is  offensive, 
because  it  runs  counter  to  and  jostles  your 


On  the  Writing  of  Essays.  35 

self-complacency.     The  egotism  which  rises 
no  higher  than  the  grave  is  of  a  solitary  and 
a  hermit  kind  —  it  crosses  no  man's  path,  it 
disturbs  no  man's  amour  propre.     You  may 
offend  a  man  if  you  say  you   are  as  rich  as 
he,  as  wise  as  he,  as  handsome  as  he.     You 
offend  no  man  if  you  tell  him  that,  like  him, 
you  have  to  die.    The  king,  in  his  crown  and 
coronation  robes,  will  allow  the   beggar  to 
claim  that  relationship  with  him.    To  have  to 
die  is  a  distinction  of  which  no  man  is  proud. 
The  speaking  about  one's  self  is  not  neces- 
sarily   offensive.       A    modest,    truthful    man 
speaks  better  about  himself  than  about  any- 
thing else,  and  on  that  subject  his  speech  is 
likely  to  be  most  profitable  to  his  hearers. 
Certainly,  there  is  no  subject  with  which  he 
is  better  acquainted,  and  on  which  he  has  a 
better   title    to    be    heard.     And    it    is    this 
egotism,  this  perpetual  reference  to   self,  in 
which  the  charm  of  the  essayist  resides.     If 
a  man  is  worth   knowing  at  all,  he  is  worth 
knowing  well.      The   essayist  gives   you  his 
thoughts,  and    lets    you    know,  in  addition, 
how  he  came  by  them.     He  has  nothing  to 
conceal ;    he    throws    open    his    doors    and 
windows,  and  lets  him   enter  who  will.     You 
like   to   walk    round    peculiar    or   important 
men  as   you   like  to  walk  round  a  building, 


36  On  the  Writbig  of  Essays. 

to  view  it  from  different  points,  and  in  differ- 
ent lights.  Of  the  essayist,  when  his  mood 
is  communicative,  you  obtain  a  full  picture. 
You  are  made  his  contemporary  and  familiar 
friend.  You  enter  into  his  humours  and  his 
seriousness.  You  are  made  heir  of  his 
whims,  prejudices,  and  playfulness.  You 
walk  through  the  whole  nature  of  him,  as 
you  walk  through  the  streets  of  Pompeii, 
looking  into  the  interior  of  stately  man- 
sions, reading  the  satirical  scribblings  on 
the  walls.  And  the  essayist's  habit  of  not 
only  giving  you  his  thoughts,  but  telling 
you  how  he  came  by  them,  is  interesting, 
because  it  shows  you  by  what  alchemy  the 
ruder  world  becomes  transmuted  into  the 
finer.  We  like  to  know  the  lineage  of  ideas, 
just  as  we  like  to  know  the  lineage  of  great 
earls  and  swift  race- horses.  We  like  to 
know  that  the  discovery  of  the  law  of  gravi- 
tation was  born  of  the  fall  of  an  apple  in  an 
English  garden  on  a  summer  afternoon. 
Essays  written  after  this  fashion  are  racy  of 
the  soil  in  which  they  grow,  as  you  taste 
the  larva  in  the  vines  grown  on  the  slopes  of 
Etna,  they  say.  There  is  a  healthy  Gascon 
flavour  in  Montaigne's  Essays ;  and  Charles 
Lamb's  are  scented  with  the  primroses  of 
Covent  Garden. 


On  the  Writing  of  Essays.  37 

The  essayist  does  not  usually  appear  early 
in  the  literary  history  of  a  country :  he 
comes  naturally  after  the  poet  and  the, 
chronicler.  His  habit  of  mind  is  leisurely  ;  - 
he  does  not  write  from  any  special  stress  of 
passionate  impulse ;  he  does  not  create 
material  so  much  as  he  comments  upon 
material  already  existing.  It  is  essential  for 
him  that  books  should  have  been  written, 
and  that  they  should,  at  least  to  some 
extent,  have  been  read  and  digested.  He  is 
usually  full  of  allusions  and  references,  and 
these  his  reader  must  be  able  to  follow  and 
understand.  And  in  this  literary  walk,  as  in 
most  others,  the  giants  came  first :  Mon- 
taigne and  Lord  Bacon  were  our  earliest 
essayists,  and,  as  yet,  they  are  our  best.  In 
point  of  style,  these  essays  are  different 
from  anything  that  could  now  be  produced. 
Not  only  is  the  thinking  different  —  the 
manner  of  setting  forth  the  thinking  is 
different  also.  We  despair  of  reaching  the 
thought,  we  despair  equally  of  reaching  the 
language.  We  can  no  more  bring  back 
their  turns  of  sentence  than  we  can  bring 
back  their  tournaments.  Montaigne,  in  his 
serious  moods,  has  a  curiously  rich  and 
intricate  eloquence ;  and  Bacon's  sentence 
bends    beneath    the  weight   of   his  thought, 


38  On  the  Writing  of  Essays, 

like  a  branch  beneath  the  weight  of  its 
fruit.  Bacon  seems  to  have  written  his 
essays  with  Shakspeare's  pen.  There  is  a 
certain  want  of  ease  about  the  old  writers 
which  has  an  irresistible  charm.  The  lan- 
guage flows  like  a  stream  over  a  pebbled  bed, 
with  propulsion,  eddy,  and  sweet  recoil  — 
the  pebbles,  if  retarding  movement,  giving 
ring  and  dimple  to  the  surface,  and  breaking 
the  whole  into  babbling  music.  There  is  a 
ceremoniousness  in  the  mental  habits  of 
these  ancients.  Their  intellectual  garniture 
is  picturesque,  like  the  garniture  of  their 
bodies.  Their  thoughts  are  ccysrtly  and  high 
mannered.  A  singular  analogy  exists  be- 
tween the  personal  attire  of  a  period  and 
its  written  style.  The  peaked  beard,  the 
starched  collar,  the  quilted  doublet,  have 
their  correspondences  in  the  high  sentence 
and  elaborate  ornament  (worked  upon  the 
thought  like  figures  upon  tapestry)  of  Sid- 
ney and  Spenser.  In  Pope's  day  men  wore 
rapiers,  and  their  weapons  they  carried  with 
them  into  literature,  and  frequently  un- 
sheathed them  too.  They  knew  how  to  stab 
to  the  heart  with  an  epigram.  Style  went 
out  with  the  men  who  wore  knee-breeches 
and  buckles  in  their  shoes.  We  write  more 
easily  now ;  but  in  our  easy  writing  there  is 


On  the  Writing  of  Essays.  39 

ever  a  taint  of  flippancy  :  our  writing  is  to 
theirs,  what  shooting-coat  and  wide-awake 
are  to  doublet  and  plumed  hat. 

Montaigne  and  Bacon  are  our  earliest  and 
greatest  essayists,  and  likeness  and  unlike- 
ness  exist  between  the  men.  Bacon  was 
constitutionally  the  graver  nature.  He 
writes  like  one  on  whom  presses  the  weight 
of  affairs,  and  he  approaches  a  subject 
always  on  its  serious  side.  He  does  not 
play  with  it  fantastically.  He  lives  amongst 
great  ideas,  as  with  great  nobles,  with  whom 
he  dare  not  be  too  familiar.  In  the  tone  of 
his  mind  there  is  ever  something  imperial. 
When  he  writes  on  building,  he  speaks  of  a 
palace  with  spacious  entrances,  and  courts, 
and  banqueting-halls ;  when  he  writes  on 
gardens,  he  speaks  of  alleys  and  mounts, 
waste  places  and  fountains,  of  a  garden 
"which  is  indeed  prince-like."  To  read  over 
his  table  of  contents,  is  like  reading  over  a 
roll  of  peers'  names.  We  have,  taking  them 
as  they  stand,  essays  treating  Of  Great  Place, 
0/  Boldness,  OJ  Goodness,  and  Goodness  of 
Nature,  Of  Nobility,  Of  Seditions  and  Trou- 
bles, Of  Atheism^  Of  Superstition,  Of  Travel, 
Of  Empire,  Of  Counsel,  —  a  book  plainly  to 
lie  in  the  closets  of  statesmen  and  princes, 
and  designed  to  nurture  the  noblest  natures. 


40  On  the  Writing  of  Essays. 

Bacon  always  seems  to  write  with  his  ermine 
on.  Montaigne  was  different  from  all  this. 
His  table  of  contents  reads,  in  comparison, 
like  a  medley,  or  a  catalogue  of  an  auction. 
He  was  quite  as  wise  as  Bacon ;  he  could 
look  through  men  quite  as  clearly,  and 
search  them  quite  as  narrowly ;  certain  of 
his  moods  were  quite  as  serious,  and  in  one 
corner  of  his  heart  he  kept  a  yet  profounder 
melancholy  ;  but  he  was  volatile,  a  humourist, 
and  a  gossip.  He  could  be  dignified  enough 
on  great  occasions,  but  dignity  and  great 
occasions  bored  him.  He  could  stand  in  the 
presence  with  propriety  enough,  but  then  he 
got  out  of  the  presence  as  rapidly  as  pos- 
sible. When,  in  the  thirty-eighth  year  of 
his  age,  he  —  somewhat  world-weary,  and 
with  more  scars  on  his  heart  than  he  cared 
to  discover  —  retired  to  his  chateau,  he 
placed  his  library  "  in  the  great  tower  over- 
looking the  entrance  to  the  court,"  and  over 
the  central  rafter  he  inscribed  in  large  letters 
the  device  —  "I  do  not  understand;  I 
PAUSE ;  I  EXAMINE."  When  he  began  to 
write  his  Essays  he  had  no  great  desire  to 
shine  as  an  author ;  he  wrote  simply  to  re- 
lieve teeming  heart  and  brain.  The  best 
method  to  lay  the  spectres  of  the  mind  is  to 
commit   them   to   paper.     Speaking   of   the 


On  the  IVrififig  of  Essays.  41 

Essays,  he  says,  "  This  book  has  a  domestic 
and  private  object.  It  is  intended  for  the 
use  of  my  relations  and  friends ;  so  that, 
when  they  have  lost  me,  which  they  will 
soon  do,  they  may  find  in  it  some  features 
of  my  condition  and  humours  ;  and  by  this 
means  keep  up  more  completely,  and  in  a 
more  lively  manner,  the  knowledge  they 
have  of  me."  In  his  Essays  he  meant  to 
portray  himself,  his  habits,  his  modes  of 
thought,  his  opinions,  what  fruit  of  wisdom 
he  had  gathered  from  experience  sweet  and 
bitter ;  and  the  task  he  has  executed  with 
wonderful  fidelity.  He  does  not  make  him- 
self a  hero.  Cromwell  would  have  his  warts 
painted ;  and  Montaigne  paints  his,  and 
paints  them  too  with  a  certain  fondness. 
He  is  perfectly  tolerant  of  himself  and  of 
everybody  else.  Whatever  be  the  subject, 
the  writing  flows  on  easy,  equable,  self- 
satisfied,  almost  always  with  a  personal 
anecdote  floating  on  the  surface.  Each 
event  of  his  past  life  he  considers  a  fact  of 
nature  ;  creditable  or  the  reverse,  there  it 
is  ;  sometimes  to  be  speculated  upon,  not  in 
the  least  to  be  regretted.  If  it  is  worth 
nothing  else,  it  may  be  made  the  subject  of 
an  essay,  or,  at  least,  be  useful  as  an  illustra- 
tion.-   We  have   not   only  his  thoughts,  we 


42  On  the  Writing  of  Essays. 

see  also  how  and  from  what  they  arose. 
When  he  presents  you  with  a  bouquet,  you 
notice  that  the  flowers  have  been  plucked 
up  by  the  roots,  and  to  the  roots  a  portion 
of  the  soil  still  adheres.  On  his  daily  life  his 
Essays  grew  like  lichens  upon  rocks.  If  a 
thing  is  useful  to  him,  he  is  not  F.queamish 
as  to  where  he  picks  it  up.  In  his  eye  there 
is  nothing  common  or  unclean ;  and  he 
accepts  a  favour  as  willingly  from  a  beggar  as 
from  a  prince.  When  it  serves  his  purpose, 
he  quotes  a  tavern  catch,  or  the  smart  say- 
ing of  a  kitchen  wench,  with  as  much  relish 
as  the  fine  sentiment  of  a  classical  poet,  or 
the  gallant  bon  mot  of  a  king.  Everything 
is  important  which  relates  to  himself.  That 
his  mustache,  if  stroked  with  his  perfumed 
glove,  or  handkerchief,  will  retain  the  odour 
a  whole  day,  is  related  with  as  much  gravity 
as  the  loss  of  a  battle,  or  the  march  of  a 
desolating  plague.  Montaigne,  in  his  grave 
passages,  reaches  an  eloquence  intricate  and 
highly  wrought ;  but  then  his  moods  are 
Protean,  and  he  is  constantly  alternating 
his  stateliness  with  familiarity,  anecdote, 
humour,  coarseness.  His  Essays  are  like  a 
mythological  landscape  —  you  hear  the  pipe 
of  Pan  in  the  distance,  the  naked  goddess 
moves  past,  the  satyr  leers  from  the  thicket. 


On  the  Writing  of  Essays.  43 

At  the  core  of  him  profoundly  melancholy, 
and  consumed  by  a  hunger  for  truth,  he 
stands  like  Prospero  in  the  enchanted 
island,  and  he  has  Ariel  and  Caliban  to  do 
his  behests  and  run  his  errands.  Sudden 
alternations  are  very  characteristic  of  him. 
Whatever  he  says  suggests  its  opposite. 
He  laughs  at  himself  and  his  reader.  He 
builds  his  castle  of  cards  for  the  mere  pleas- 
ure of  knocking  it  down  again.  He  is  ever 
unexpected  and  surprising.  And  with  this 
curious  mental  activity,  this  play  and  linked 
dance  of  discordant  elements,  his  page  is 
alive  and  restless,  like  the  constant  flicker 
of  light  and  shadow  in  a  mass  of  foliage 
which  the  wind  is  stirring. 

Montaigne  is  avowedly  an  egotist ;  and  by 
those  who  are  inclined  to  make  this  a  matter 
of  reproach,  it  should  be  remembered  that 
the  value  of  egotism  depends  entirely  on 
the  egotist.  If  the  egotist  is  weak,  his 
egotism  is  worthless.  If  the  egotist  is 
strong,  acute,  full  of  distinctive  character, 
his  egotism  is  precious,  and  remains  a  pos- 
session of  the  race.  If  Shakspeare  had  left 
personal  revelations,  how  we  should  value 
them  ;  if,  indeed,  he  has  not  in  some  sense 
left  them  —  if  the  tragedies  and  comedies 
are  not  personal  revelations  altogether  —  the 


44  On  the  IV/iting  of  Essays. 

multiform  nature  of  the  man  rushing 
towards  the  sun  at  once  in  Falstaff,  Hamlet, 
and  Romeo.  But  calling  Montaigne  an 
egotist  does  not  go  a  great  way  to  decipher 
him.  No  writer  takes  the  reader  so  much 
into  his  confidence,  and  no  one  so  entirely 
escapes  the  penalty  of  confidence.  He  tells 
us  everything  about  himself,  we  think ;  and 
when  all  is  told,  it  is  astonishing  how  little 
we  really  know.  The  esplanades  of  Mon- 
taigne's palace  are  thoroughfares,  men  from 
every  European  country  rub  clothes  there, 
but  somewhere  in  the  building  there  is  a 
secret  room  in  which  the  master  sits,  of 
which  no  one  but  himself  wears  the  key. 
We  read  in  the  Essays  about  his  wife,  his 
daughter,  his  daughter's  governess,  of  his 
cook,  of  his  page,  "who  was  never  found 
guilty  of  telling  the  truth,"  of  his  library, 
the  Gascon  harvest  outside  his  chateau,  his 
habits  of  composition,  his  favourite  specula- 
tions ;  but  somehow  the  man  himself  is 
constantly  eluding  us.  His  daughter's  gov- 
erness, his  page,  the  ripening  Gascon  fields, 
are  never  introduced  for  their  own  sakes  ; 
they  are  employed  to  illustrate  and  set  off 
the  subject  on  which  he  happens  to  be 
writing.  A  brawl  in  his  own  kitchen  he 
does  not  consider  worthy  of  being  specially 


On  the  Writing  of  Essays.  45 

set  down,  but  he  has  seen  and  heard  every- 
thing :  it  comes  in  his  way  when  travelUng 
in  some  remote  region,  and  accordingly  it 
finds  a  place.  He  is  the  frankest,  most  out- 
spoken of  writers ;  and  that  very  frankness 
and  outspokenness  puts  the  reader  off  his 
guard.  If  you  wish  to  preserve  your  secret, 
wrap  it  up  in  frankness.  The  Essays  are 
full  of  this  trick.  The  frankness  is  as  well 
simulated  as  the  grape-branches  of  the 
Grecian  artist  which  the  birds  flew  towards 
and  pecked.  When  Montaigne  retreats,  he 
does  so  like  a  skilful  general,  leaving  his 
fires  burning.  In  other  ways,  too,  he  is  an 
adept  in  putting  his  reader  out.  He  dis- 
courses with  the  utmost  gravity,  but  you 
suspect  mockery  or  banter  in  his  tones.  He 
is  serious  with  the  most  trifling  subjects, 
and  he  trifles  with  the  most  serious.  "  He 
broods  eternally  over  his  own  thought," 
but  who  can  tell  what  his  thought  may  be 
for  the  nonce  ?  He  is  of  all  writers  the  most 
vagrant,  surprising,  and,  to  many  minds, 
illogical.  His  sequences  are  not  the  se- 
quences of  other  men.  His  writings  are  as 
full  of  transformations  as  a  pantomime  or  a 
fairy  tale.  His  arid  wastes  lead  up  to  glitter- 
ing palaces,  his  banqueting-halls  end  in  a 
dog-hutch.    He  begins  an  essay  about  trivial- 


46  On  the  Writing  of  Essays. 

ities,  and  the  conclusion  is  in  the  other  world. 
And  the  peculiar  character  of  his  writing, 
like  the  peculiar  character  of  all  writing 
which  is  worth  anything,  arises  from  con- 
stitutional turn  of  mind.  He  is  constantly 
playing  at  ftist  and  loose  with  himself  and 
his  reader.  He  mocks  and  scorns  his  deeper 
nature ;  and,  like  Shakspeare  in  Hamlet, 
says  his  deepest  things  in  a  jesting  way. 
When  he  is  gayest,  be  sure  there  is  a  serious 
design  in  his  gaiety.  Singularly  shrewd  and 
penetrating  —  sad,  not  only  from  sensibility 
of  exquisite  nerve  and  tissue,  but  from  medi- 
tation, and  an  eye  that  pierced  the  surfaces 
of  things  —  fond  of  pleasure,  yet  strangely 
fascinated  by  death  —  sceptical,  yet  clinging 
to  what  the  Church  taught  and  believed  — 
lazily  possessed  by  a  high  ideal  of  life,  yet 
unable  to  reach  it,  careless  perhaps  often 
to  strive  after  it,  and  with  no  very  high 
opinion  of  his  own  goodness,  or  of  the 
goodness  of  his  fellows  —  and  with  all  these 
serious  elements,  an  element  of  humour 
mobile  as  flame,  which  assumed  a  variety  of 
forms,  now  pure  fun,  now  mischievous  ban- 
ter, now  blistering  scorn  —  humour  in  all  its 
shapes,  carelessly  exercised  on  himself  and 
his  readers  —  with  all  this  variety,  complex- 
ity, riot,  and  contradiction  almost  of  intel- 


On  the  Writing  of  Essays.  47 

lectual  forces  within,  Montaigne  wrote  his 
bewildering  Essays  —  with  the  exception  of 
Rabelais,  the  greatest  Modern  Frenchman  — 
the  creator  of  a  distinct  literary  form,  and  to 
whom,  down  even  to  our  own  day,  even  in 
point  of  subject-matter,  every  essayist  has 
been  more  or  less  indebted. 

Bacon  is  the  greatest  of  the  serious  and 
stately  essayists, — Montaigne  the  greatest  of 
the  garrulous  and  communicative.  The 
one  gives  you  his  thoughts  on  Death, 
Travel,  Government,  and  the  like,  and  lets 
you  make  the  best  of  them ;  the  other  gives 
you  his  on  the  same  subjects,  but  he  wraps 
them  up  in  personal  gossip  and  reminis- 
cence. With  the  last  it  is  never  Death  or 
Travel  alone  :  it  is  always  Death  one-fourth, 
and  Montaigne  three-fourths  ;  or  Travel  one- 
fourth,  and  Montaigne  three-fourths.  He 
pours  his  thought  into  the  water  of  gossip, 
and  gives  you  to  drink.  He  gilds  his  pill 
always,  and  he  always  gilds  it  with  himself. 
The  general  characteristics  of  his  Essays 
have  been  indicated,  and  it  is  worth  while 
inquiring  what  they  teach,  what  positive 
good  they  have  done,  and  why  for  three 
centuries  they  have  charmed,  and  still  con- 
tinue to  charm. 

The   Essays  contain  a  philosophy  of  life. 


48  On  the  Writing  of  Essays. 

which  is  not  specially  high,  yet  which  is 
certain  to  find  acceptance  more  or  less 
with  men  who  have  passed  out  beyond 
the  glow  of  youth,  and  who  have  made 
trial  of  the  actual  world.  The  essence  of 
his  philosophy  is  a  kind  of  cynical  com- 
mon-sense. He  will  risk  nothing  in  life ; 
he  will  keep  to  the  beaten  track ;  he  will 
not  let  passion  blind  or  enslave  him ;  he  will 
gather  round  him  what  good  he  can,  and 
will  therewith  endeavour  to  be  content.  He 
will  be,  as  far  as  possible,  self- sustained  ; 
he  will  not  risk  his  happiness  in  the  hands 
of  man,  or  of  woman  either.  He  is  shy  of 
friendship,  he  fears  love,  for  he  knows  that 
both  are  dangerous.  He  knows  that  life  is 
full  of  bitters,  and  he  holds  it  wisdom  that  a 
man  should  console  himself,  as  far  as  pos- 
sible, with  its  sweets,  the  principal  of  which 
are  peace,  travel,  leisure,  and  the  writing  of 
essays.  He  values  obtainable  Gascon  bread 
and  cheese  more  than  the  unobtainable  stars. 
He  thinks  crying  for  the  moon  the  foolish - 
est  thing  in  the  world.  He  will  remain 
where  he  is.  He  will  not  deny  that  a  new 
world  may  exist  beyond  the  sunset,  but  he 
knows  that  to  reach  the  new  world  there  is 
a  troublesome  Atlantic  to  cross ;  and  he  is 
not   in  the   least  certain  that,  putting  aside 


On  the   Writing  of  Essays.  49 

the  chance  of  being  drowned  on  the  way,  he 
will  be  one  whit  happier  in  the  new  world 
than  he  is  in  the  old.  For  his  part  he  will 
embark  with  no  Columbus.  He  feels  that 
life  is  but  a  sad  thing  at  best ;  but  as  he  has 
little  hope  of  making  it  better,  he  accepts  it, 
and  will  not  make  it  worse  by  murmuring. 
When  the  chain  galls  him,  he  can  at  least 
revenge  himself  by  making  jests  on  it.  He 
will  temper  the  despotism  of  nature  by 
epigrams.  He  has  read  .4^sop's  fable,  and  is 
the  last  man  in  the  world  to  relinquish  the 
shabbiest  substance  to  grasp  at  the  finest 
shadow. 

Of  nothing  under  the  sun  was  Montaigne 
quite  certain,  except  that  every  man  — what- 
ever his  station  —  might  travel  farther  and 
fare  worse  ;  and  that  the  playing  with  his 
own  thoughts,  in  the  shape  of  essay-writing, 
was  the  most  harmless  of  amusements.  His 
practical  acquiescence  in  things  does  not 
promise  much  fruit,  save  to  himself;  yet  in 
virtue  of  it  he  became  one  of  the  forces  of 
the  world  —  a  very  visible  agent  in  bringing 
about  the  Europe  which  surrounds  us  to- 
day. He  lived  in  the  midst  of  the  French 
religious  wars.  The  rulers  of  his  country 
were  execrable  Christians,  but  most  ortho- 
dox Catholics.     The  burnina;  of  heretics  was 


50  On  the   Writing  of  Essays. 

a  public  amusement,  and  the  court  ladies  sat 
out  the  play.  On  the  queen-mother  and  on 
her  miserable  son  lay.  all  the  blood  of  the 
St.  Bartholomew.  The  country  was  torn 
asunder ;  everywhere  was  battle,  murder, 
pillage,  and  such  woeful  partings  as  Mr. 
Millais  has  represented  in  his  incomparable 
picture.  To  the  solitary  humourous  essayist 
this  state  of  things  was  hateful.  He  was  a 
good  Catholic  in  his  easy  way ;  he  attended 
divine  service  regularly ;  he  crossed  himself 
when  he  yawned.  He  conformed  in  practice 
to  every  rule  of  the  Church  ;  but  if  orthodox 
in  these  matters,  he  was  daring  in  specula- 
tion. There  was  nothing  he  was  not  bold 
enough  to  question.  He  waged  war  after 
his  peculiar  fashion  with  every  form  of 
superstition.  He  worked  under  the  founda- 
tions of  priestcraft.  But  while  serving  the 
Reformed  cause,  he  had  no  sympathy  with 
Reformers.  If  they  would  but  remain  quiet, 
but  keep  their  peculiar  notions  to  them- 
selves, France  would  rest  !  That  a  man 
should  go  to  the  stake  for  an  opinion,  was 
as  incomprehensible  to  him  as  that  a  priest 
or  king  should  send  him  there  for  an  opin- 
ion. He  thought  the  persecuted  and  the 
persecutors  fools  about  equally  matched. 
He  was  easy-tempered  and  humane  —  in  the 


On  the    Writing  of  Essays.  5 1 

hunting-field  he  could  not  bear  the  cry  of  a 
dying  hare  with  composure  —  martyr- burn- 
ing had  consequently  no  attraction  for  such 
a  man.  His  scepticism  came  into  play,  his 
melancholy  humour,  his  sense  of  the  illimit- 
able which  surrounds  man's  life,  and  which 
mocks,  defeats,  flings  back  his  thought 
upon  himself.  Man  is  here,  he  said,  with 
bounded  powers,  with  limited  knowledge, 
with  an  unknown  behind,  an  unknown  in 
front,  assured  of  nothing  but  that  he  was 
born,  and  that  he  must  die ;  why,  then,  in 
Heaven's  name  should  he  burn  his  fellow 
for  a  difference  of  opinion  in  the  matter  of 
surplices,  or  as  to  the  proper  fashion  of  con- 
ducting devotion?  Out  of  his  scepticism 
and  his  merciful  disposition  grew,  in  that 
fiercely  intolerant  age,  the  idea  of  toleration, 
of  which  he  was  the  apostle.  Widely  read, 
charming  every  one  by  his  wit  and  wisdom, 
his  influence  spread  from  mind  to  mind,  and 
assisted  in  bringing  about  the  change  which 
has  taken  place  in  European  thought.  His 
ideas,  perhaps,  did  not  spring  from  the 
highest  sources.  He  was  no  ascetic,  he 
loved  pleasure,  he  was  tolerant  of  every- 
thing except  cruelty;  but  on  that  account 
we  should  not  grudge  him  his  meed.  It  is 
in  this  indirect  way  that  great  writers   take 


52  On  the    Writing  of  Essays. 

their  place  among  the  forces  of  the  world. 
In  the  long  run,  genius  and  wit  side  with 
the  right  cause.  And  the  man  fighting 
against  wrong  to-day  is  assisted,  in  a  greater 
degree  than  perhaps  he  is  himself  aware,  by 
the  sarcasm  of  this  writer,  the  metaphor  of 
that,  the  song  of  the  other,  although  the 
writers  themselves  professed  indifference, 
or  were  even  counted  as  belonging  to  the 
enemy. 

Montaigne's  hold  on  his  readers  arises 
from  many  causes.  There  is  his  frank  and 
curious  self-delineation ;  that  interests,  be-  ■ 
cause  it  is  the  revelation  of  a  very  peculiar 
nature.  Then  there  is  the  positive  value  of 
separate  thoughts  imbedded  in  his  strange 
whimsicality  and  humour.  Lastly,  there  is 
the  perennial  charm  of  style,  which  is  never 
a  separate  quality,  but  rather  the  amalgam 
and  issue  of  all  the  mental  and  moral 
qualities  in  a  man's  possession,  and  which 
bears  the  same  relation  to  these  that  light 
bears  to  the  mingled  elements  that  make  up 
the  orb  of  the  sun.  And  style,  after  all, 
rather  than  thought,  is  the  immortal  thing 
in  literature.  In  literature,  the  charm  of 
style  is  indefinable,  yet  all -subduing,  just  as 
fine  manners  are  in  social  life.  In  reality,  it 
is  not  of   so   much  consequence  what  you 


On  the    Writing  of  Essays.  53 

say,  as  how  you  say  it.  Memorable  sen- 
tences are  memorable  on  account  of  some 
single  irradiating  word.  "  But  Shadvvell 
never  deviates  into  sense,"  for  instance. 
Young  Roscius,  in  his  provincial  barn,  will 
repeat  you  the  great  soliloquy  of  Hamlet, 
and  although  every  word  may  be  given  with 
tolerable  correctness,  you  find  it  just  as 
commonplace  as  himself;  the  great  actor 
speaks  it,  and  you  *'  read  Shakspeare  as  by 
a  flash  of  lightning."  And  it  is  in  Mon- 
taigne's style,  in  the  strange  freaks  and 
turnings  of  his  thought,  his  constant  sur- 
prises, his  curious  alternations  of  humour 
and  melancholy,  his  careless,  familiar  form 
of  address,  and  the  grace  with  which  every- 
thing is  done,  that  his  charm  lies,  and  which 
makes  the  hundredth  perusal  of  him  as 
pleasant  as  the  first. 

And  on  style  depends  the  success  of  the 
essayist.  Montaigne  said  the  most  familiar 
things  in  the  finest  way.  Goldsmith  could 
not  be  termed  a  thinker ;  but  everything  he 
touched  he  brightened,  as  after  a  month  of 
dry  weather,  the  shower  brightens  the  dusty 
shrubbery  of  a  suburban  villa.  The  world 
is  not  so  much  in  need  of  new  thoughts  as 
that  when  thought  grows  old  and  worn  with 
usage  it  should,  like  current  coin,  be  called 


54  On  the    Writing  of  Essays. 

in,  and,  from  the  mint  of  genius,  reissued 
fresh  and  new.  Love  is  an  old  story  enough, 
but  in  every  generation  it  is  re-born,  in  the 
downcast  eyes  and  blushes  of  young  maid- 
ens. And  so,  although  he  fluttered  in  Eden, 
Cupid  is  young  to-day.  If  Montaigne  had 
lived  in  Dreamthorp,  as  I  am  now  living, 
had  he  written  essays  as  I  am  now  writing 
them,  his  English  Essays  would  have  been 
as  good  as  his  Gascon  ones.  Looking  on, 
the  country  cart  would  not  for  nothing  have 
passed  him  on  the  road  to  market,  the  set- 
ting sun  would  be  arrested  in  its  splendid 
colours,  the  idle  chimes  of  the  church  would 
be  translated  into  a  thoughtful  music.  As  it 
is,  the  village  life  goes  on,  and  there  is  no 
result.  My  sentences  are  not  much  more 
brilliant  than  the  speeches  of  the  clowns; 
in  my  book  there  is  little  more  life  than 
there  is  in  the  market-place  on  the  days 
when  there  is  no  market. 


OFDeATH  AND  THE  FEAR    OF   DYING  ^i 


[ET  me  curiously  analyse  eternal 
farewells,  and  the  last  pressures 
of  loving  hands.  Let  me  smile 
at  faces  bewept,  and  the  nodding 
plumes  and  slow  paces  of  funerals.  Let  me 
write  down  brave  heroical  sentences  —  sen- 
tences that  defy  death,  as  brazen  Goliath  the 
hosts  of  Israel. 

"  When  death  waits  for  us  is  uncertain ; 
let  us  everywhere  look  for  him.  The  pre- 
meditation of  death  is  the  premeditation  of 
liberty ;  who  has  learnt  to  die,  has  forgot  to 
serve.  There  is  nothing  of  evil  in  life  for 
him  who  rightly  comprehends  that  death  is 
no  evil ;  to  know  how  to  die  delivers  us 
from  all  subjection  and  constraint.  Paiilus 
yEmiliiis  answered  him  whom  the  miserable 
king  of  Macedon,  his  prisoner,  sent  to  entreat 
him  that  he  would  not  lead  him  in  his  tri- 
umph, 'Let  him  make  that  request  to  himself.'' 
In  truth,  in  all  things,  if  nature  do  not  help 


56  Death  and  Dying. 

a  little,  it  is  very  hard  for  art  and  industry  to 
perform  anything  to  purpose.  I  am,  in  my 
own  nature,  not  melancholy,  but  thoughtful ; 
and  there  is  nothing  I  have  more  continually 
entertained  myself  withal  than  the  imagina- 
tions of  death,  even  in  the  gayest  and  most 
wanton  time  of  my  age.  In  the  company  of 
ladies,  and  in  the  height  of  mirth,  some  have 
perhaps  thought  me  possessed  of  some  jeal- 
ousy, or  meditating  upon  the  uncertainty  of 
some  imagined  hope,  whilst  I  was  entertain- 
ing myself  with  the  remembrance  of  some 
one  surprised  a  few  days  before  with  a  burn- 
ing fever,  of  which  he  died,  returning  from 
an  entertainment  like  this,  with  his  head 
full  of  idle  fancies  of  love  and  jollity,  as 
mine  was  then ;  and  for  aught  I  knew,  the 
same  destiny  was  attending  me.  Yet  did 
not  this  thought  wrinkle  my  forehead  any 
more  than  any  other."  .  .  .  .  "  Why  dost 
thou  fear  this  last  day?  It  contributes  no 
more  to  thy  destruction  than  every  one  of 
the  rest.  The  last  step  is  not  the  cause  of 
lassitude,  it  does  but  confer  it.  Every  day 
travels  toward  death ;  the  last  only  arrives  at 
it.  These  are  the  good  lessons  our  mother 
nature  teaches.  I  have  often  considered 
with  myself  whence  it  should  proceed,  that 
in   war   the   image    of  death  —  whether  we 


Death  and  Dying.  5  7 

look  upon  it  as  to  our  own  particular 
danger,  or  that  of  another  —  should,  without 
comparison,  appear  less  dreadful  than  at 
home  in  our  own  houses,  (for  if  it  were 
not  so,  it  would  be  an  army  of  whining  milk- 
sops,) and  that  being  still  in  all  places  the 
same,  there  should  be,  notwithstanding,  much 
more  assurance  in  peasants  and  the  meaner 
sort  of  people,  than  others  of  better  quality 
and  education ;  and  I  do  verily  believe,  that 
it  is  those  terrible  ceremonies  and  prepara- 
tions wherewith  we  set  it  out,  that  more 
terrify  us  than  the  thing  itself;  a  new,  quite 
contrary  way  of  living,  the  cries  of  mothers, 
wives  and  children,  the  visits  of  astonished 
and  affected  friends,  the  attendance  of  pale 
and  blubbered  servants,  a  dark  room  set 
round  with  burning  tapers,  our  beds  envi- 
roned with  physicians  and  divines ;  in  fine, 
nothing  but  ghostliness  and  horror  round 
about  us,  render  it  so  formidable,  that  a  man 
almost  fancies  himself  dead  and  buried  al- 
ready. Children  are  afraid  even  of  those 
they  love  best,  and  are  best  acquainted  with, 
when  disguised  in  a  vizor,  and  so  are  we ; 
the  vizor  must  be  removed  as  well  from 
things  as  persons ;  which  being  taken  away, 
we  shall  find  nothing  underneath  but  the 
very  same   death    that    a    mean  servant,  or 


V 


58  Death  and  Dying. 

a  poor  chambermaid,  died  a  day  or  two 
ago,  without  any  manner  of  apprehension  or 
concern."  * 

"  Men  feare  death  as  children  feare  to  goe 
in  the  darke  ;  and  as  that  natural  feare  in 
children  is  increased  with  tales,  so  in  the 
other.  Certainly  the  contemplation  of  death 
as  the  wages  of  sinne,  and  passage  to  another 
world,  is  holy  and  religious ;  but  the  feare 
of  it  as  a  tribute  unto  nature,  is  weake.  Yet 
in  religious  meditations  there  is  sometimes 
mixture  of  vanitie  and  of  superstition.  You 
shal  reade  in  some  of  the  friars'  books  of 
mortifieation,  that  a  man  should  thinke  unto 
himself  what  the  paine  is  if  he  have  but  his 
finger-end  pressed  or  tortured  ;  and  thereby 
imagine  what  the  pains  of  death  are  when 
the  whole  body  is  corrupted  and  dissolved ; 
when  many  times  death  passeth  with  lesse 
paine  than  the  torture  of  a  Lemme.  For 
the  most  vitall  parts  are  not  the  quickest  of 
sense.  Groanes  and  convulsions,  and  a  dis- 
coloured face,  and  friends  weeping,  and 
blackes  and  obsequies,  and  the  like,  shew 
death  terrible.  It  is  worthy  the  obsening, 
that  there  is  no  passion  in  the  minde  of  man 
so  weake  but  it  mates  and  masters  the  feare 
of  death;    and  therefore  death  is  no  such 

*  Montaigne. 


Death  and  Dying.  59 

terrible  enemy  when  a  man  hath  so  many 
attendants  about  him  that  can  winne  the 
combat  of  him.  Revenge  triumphs  over 
death,  love  subjects  it,  honour  aspireth  to  it, 
griefe  fleeth  to  it,  feare  pre-occupieth  it ; 
nay,  we  read,  after  Otho  the  emperour  had 
slaine  himselfe, ////r,  (which  is  the  tenderest 
of  affections,)  prov'oked  many  to  die,  out  of 
meer  compassion  to  their  soveraigne,  and  as 

the  truest  sort  of  followers It   is  as 

natural!  to  die  as  to  be  born ;  and  to  a  little 
infant,  perhaps,  the  one  is  as  painful  as  the 
other.  He  that  dies  in  an  earnest  pursuit  is 
like  one  that  is  wounded  in  hot  blood,  who 
for  the  time  scarce  feels  the  hurt ;  and, 
therefore,  a  minde  mixt  and  bent  upon 
somewhat  that  is  good,  doth  avert  the  sad- 
ness of  death.  But  above  all,  believe  it,  the 
sweetest  canticle  is  Nunc  Diniittis,  when  a 
man  hath  obtained  worthy  ends  and  expecta- 
tions. Death  hath  this  also  ;  that  it  openeth 
the  gate  to  good  fame,  and  extinguisheth 
envie."  * 

These  sentences  of  the  great  essayists  are 
brave  and  ineffectual  as  Leonidas  and  his 
Greeks.  Death  cares  very  little  for  sarcasm 
or  trope  ;  hurl  at  him  a  javelin  or  a  rose,  it 
is  all  one.     We  build  around  ourselves  ram- 

*  Bacon. 


6o  Death  and  Dying. 

parts  of  stoical  maxims,  edifying  to  witness, 
but  when  the  terror  comes  these  yield  as 
the  knots  of  river  flags  to  the  shoulder  of 
Behemoth. 

Death  is  terrible  only  in  presence.  When 
distant,  or  supposed  to  be  distant,  we  can 
call  him  hard  or  tender  names,  nay,  even 
poke  our  poor  fun  at  him.  Mr.  Putich,  on 
one  occasion,  when  he  wished  to  ridicule 
the  useful- information  leanings  of  a  certain 
periodical  publication,  quoted  from  its  pages 
the  sentence,  "  Man  is  mortal,"  and  people 
were  found  to  grin  broadly  over  the  exqui- 
site stroke  of  humour.  Certainly  the  words, 
and  the  fact  they  contain,  are  trite  enough. 
Utter  the  sentence  gravely  in  any  company, 
and  you  are  certain  to  provoke  laughter. 
And  yet  some  subtile  recognition  of  the  fact 
of  death  runs  constantly  through  the  warp 
and  woof  of  the  most  ordinary  human  ex- 
istence. And  this  recognition  does  not 
always  terrify.  The  spectre  has  the  most 
cunning  disguises,  and  often  when  near  us 
we  are  unaware  of  the  fact  of  proximity. 
Unsuspected,  this  idea  of  death  lurks  in  the 
sweetness  of  music  ;  it  has  something  to  do 
with  the  pleasures  with  which  we  behold 
the  vapours  of  morning;  it  comes  between 
the  passionate  lips  of  lovers ;  it  lives  in  the 


Death  and  Dying.  6i 

thrill  of  kisses.  "  An  inch  deeper,  and  you 
will  find  the  emperor."  Probe  joy  to  its 
last  fibre,  and  you  will  find  death.  And  it 
is  the  most  merciful  of  all  the  merciful  pro- 
visions of  nature,  that  a  haunting  sense  of 
insecurity  should  deepen  the  enjoyment  of 
what  we  hav-e  secured ;  that  the  pleasure 
of  our  warm  human  day  and  its  activities 
should  to  some  extent  arise  from  a  vague 
consciousness  of  the  waste  night  which  en- 
virons it,  in  which  no  arm  is  raised,  in  which 
no  voice  is  ever  heard.  Death  is  the  ugly  ^' 
fact  which  nature  has  to  hide,  and  she  hides 
it  well.  Human  life  were  otherwise  an  im- 
possibility. The  pantomime  runs  on  merrily 
enough  ;  but  when  once  Harlequin  lifts  his 
vizor,  Columbine  disappears,  the  jest  is 
frozen  on  the  Clown's  lips,  and  the  hand  of 
the  filching  Pantaloon  is  arrested  in  the  act. 
Wherever  death  looks,  there  is  silence  and 
trembling.  But  although  on  every  man  he 
will  one  day  or  another  look,  he  is  coy  of  re- 
vealing himself  till  the  appointed  time.  He 
makes  his  approaches  like  an  Indian  warrior, 
under  covers  and  ambushes.  \Ve  have  our 
parts  to  play,  and  he  remains  hooded  till 
they  are  played  out.  We  are  agitated  by 
our  passions,  we  busily  pursue  our  ambitions, 
we  are  acquiring  money  or  reputation,  and 


62  Death  ajid  Dying. 

all  at  once,  in  the  centre  of  our  desires,  we 
discover  the  "Shadow  feared  of  man."  And 
so  nature  fools  the  poor  human  mortal  ever- 
more. When  she  means  to  be  deadly,  she 
dresses  her  face  in  smiles ;  when  she  selects 
a  victim,  she  sends  him  a  poisoned  rose. 
There  is  no  pleasure,  no  shape  of  good  for- 
tune, no  form  of  glory  in  which  death  has 
not  hid  himself,  and  waited  silently  for  his 
prey. 

/  And  death  is  the  most  ordinary  thing  in 
the  world.  It  is  as  common  as  births ;  it  is 
of  more  frequent  occurrence  than  marriages 
and  the  attainment  of  majorities.  But  the 
difference  between  death  and  other  forms  of 
human  experience  lies  in  this,  that  we  can 
gain  no  information  about  it.  The  dead 
man  is  wise,  but  he  is  silent.  We  cannot 
wring  his  secret  from  him.  We  cannot  in- 
terpret the  ineffable  calm  which  gathers  on 
the  rigid  face.  As  a  consequence,  when  our 
thought  rests  on  death  we  are  smitten  with 
isolation  and  loneliness.  We  are  without 
company  on  the  dark  road  ;  and  we  have 
advanced  so  far  upon  it  that  we  cannot  hear 
the  voices  of  our  friends.  It  is  in  this  sense 
of  loneliness,  this  consciousness  of  identity 
and  nothing  more,  that  the  terror  of  dying 
consists.     And  yet,  compared  to  that  road. 


Death  and  Dying.  63 

the  most  populous  thoroughfare  of  London 
or  Pekin  is  a  desert.  What  enumerator  will 
take  for  us  the  census  of  dead?  And  this 
matter  of  death  and  dying,  like  most  things 
else  in  the  world,  may  be  exaggerated  by 
our  own  fears  and  hopes.  Death,  terrible  to 
look  forward  to,  may  be  pleasant  even  to 
look  back  at.  Could  w^e  be  admitted  to  the 
happy  fields,  and  hear  the  conversations 
which  blessed  spirits  hold,  one  might  dis- 
cover that  to  conquer  death  a  man  has  but  to 
die  ;  that  by  that  act  terror  is  softened  into 
familiarity,  and  that  the  remembrance  of 
death  becomes  but  as  the  remembrance  of 
yesterday.  To  these  fortunate  ones  death 
may  be  but  a  date,  and  dying  a  subject  fruit- 
ful in  comparisons,  a  matter  on  which  expe- 
riences may  be  serenely  compared.  Mean- 
time, however,  lue  have  not  yet  reached 
that  measureless  content,  and  death  scares, 
piques,  tantalises,  as  mind  and  nerve  are 
built.  Situated  as  we  are,  knowing  that  it 
is  inevitable,  we  cannot  keep  our  thoughts 
from  resting  on  it  curiously,  at  times.  Noth- 
ing interests  us  so  much.  The  Highland 
seer  pretended  that  he  could  see  the  wind- 
ing-sheet high  upon  the  breast  of  the  man 
for  whom  death  was  waiting.  Could  we  be- 
hold any  such   visible    sign,   the   man  who 


G4  Death  and  Dying. 

bore  it,  no  matter  where  he  stood  —  even  if 
he  were  a  slave  watching  Caesar  pass  —  would 
usurp  every  eye.  At  the  coronation  of  a 
king,  the  wearing  of  that  order  would  dim 
royal  robe,  quench  the  sparkle  of  the  dia- 
dem, and  turn  to  vanity  the  herald's  cry. 
Death  makes  the  meanest  beggar  august, 
and  that  augustness  would  assert  itself  in 
the  presence  of  a  king.  And  it  is  this  curi- 
osity with  regard  to  everything  related  to 
death  and  dying  which  makes  us  treasure  up 
the  last  sayings  of  great  men,  and  attempt 
to  wring  out  of  them  tangible  meanings. 
Was  Goethe's  "  Light  —  light,  more  light !  " 
a  prayer,  or  a  statement  of  spiritual  experi- 
ence, or  simply  an  utterance  of  the  fact  that 
the  room  in  which  he  lay  was  filling  with  the 
last  twilight?  In  consonance  with  our  own 
natures,  we  interpret  it  the  one  way  or 
the  other  —  he  is  beyond  our  questioning. 
F^or  the  same  reason  it  is  that  men  take 
interest  in  executions  —  from  Charles  I.  on 
the  scaffold  at  Whitehall,  to  Porteous  in 
the  Grassmarket  execrated  by  the  mob. 
These  men  are  not  dulled  by  disease,  they 
are  not  delirious  with  fever ;  they  look  death 
in  the  face,  and  what  in  these  circumstances 
they  say  and  do  has  the  strangest  fascination 
for  us. 


Death  and  Dying.  65 

What  does  the  murderer  think  when  his 
eyes  are  forever  blinded  by  the  accursed 
nightcap?  In  what  form  did  thought  con- 
dense itself  between  the  gleam  of  the  lifted 
axe  and  the  rolling  of  King  Charles's  head 
in  the  saw-dust?  This  kind  of  speculation 
may  be  morbid,  but  it  is  not  necessarily  so. 
All  extremes  of  human  experience  touch  us ; 
and  we  have  all  the  deepest  personal  inter- 
est in  the  experience  of  death.  Out  of  all 
we  know  about  dying  we  strive  to  clutch 
something  which  may  break  its  solitariness, 
and  relieve  us  by  a  touch  of  companionship. 

To  denude  death  of  its  terrible  associa- 
tions were  a  vain  attempt.  The  atmosphere 
is  always  cold  around  an  iceberg.  In  the 
contemplation  of  dying  the  spirit  may  not 
flinch,  but  pulse  and  heart,  colour  and  articu- 
lation, are  always  cowards.  No  philosophy 
will  teach  them  bravery  in  the  stern  pres- 
ence. And  yet  there  are  considerations 
which  rob  death  of  its  ghastliness,  and  help 
to  reconcile  us  to  it.  The  thoughtful  happi- 
ness of  a  human  being  is  complex,  and  in 
certain  moved  moments,  which,  after  they 
have  gone,  we  can  recognise  to  have  been 
our  happiest,  some  subtle  thought  of  death 
has  been  curiously  intermixed.  And  this 
subtle    intermixture    it    is    which    gives    the 


66  Death  and  Dying. 

happy  moment  its  character — which  makes 
the  difference  between  the  gladness  of  a 
child,  resident  in  mere  animal  health  and 
impulse,  and  too  volatile  to  be  remembered, 
and  the  serious  joy  of  a  man,  which  looks 
before  and  after,  and  takes  in  both  this 
world  and  the  next.  Speaking  broadly,  it 
may  be  said  that  it  is  from  some  obscure  rec- 
ognition of  the  fact  of  death  that  life  draws 
its  final  sweetness.  An  obscure,  haunting 
recognition,  of  course  ;  for  if  more  than  that, 
if  the  thought  becomes  palpable,  defined, 
and  present,  it  swallows  up  everything.  The 
howling  of  the  winter  wind  outside  increases 
the  warm  satisfaction  of  a  man  in  bed ; 
but  this  satisfaction  is  succeeded  by  quite 
another  feeling  when  the  wind  grows  into  a 
tempest,  and  threatens  to  blow  the  house 
down.  And  this  remote  recognition  of  death 
may  exist  almost  constantly  in  a  man's  mind, 
and  give  to  his  life  keener  zest  and  relish. 
His  lights  may  burn  the  brighter  for  it,  and 
his  wines  taste  sweeter.  For  it  is  on  the 
tapestry  of  a  dim  ground  that  the  figures 
come  out  in  the  boldest  relief  and  the  bright- 
est colour. 

If  we  were  to  live  here  always,  with  no 
other  care  than  how  to  feed,  clothe,  and 
house  ourselves,  life  would   be  a  very  sorry 


Death  and  Dying.  67 

business.  It  is  immeasurably  heightened 
by  the  solemnity  of  death.  The  brutes  die 
even  as  we  ;  but  it  is  our  knowledge  that  we 
have  to  die  that  makes  us  human.  If  nature 
cunningly  hides  death,  and  so  permits  us  to 
play  out  our  little  games,  it  is  easily  seen 
that  our  knowing  it  to  be  inevitable,  that  to 
every  one  of  us  it  will  come  one  day  or 
another,  is  a  wonderful  spur  to  action.  We 
really  do  work  while  it  is  called  to-day,  be- 
cause the  night  cometh  when  no  man  can 
work.  We  may  not  expect  it  soon  —  it  may 
not  have  sent  us  a  %\\\^q  avant-coiirier —  yet 
we  all  know  that  every  day  brings  it  nearer. 
On  the  supposition  that  we  were  to  live 
here  always,  there  would  be  little  induce- 
ment to  exertion.  But,  having  some  work 
at  heart,  the  knowledge  that  we  may  be,  any 
day,  finally  interrupted,  is  an  incentive  to 
diligence.  We  naturally  desire  to  have  it 
completed,  or  at  least  far  advanced  toward 
completion,  before  that  final  interruption 
takes  place.  And  knowing  that  his  exist- 
ence here  is  limited,  a  man's  workings  have 
reference  to  others  rather  than  to  himself, 
and  thereby  into  his  nature  comes  a  new  in- 
flux of  nobility.  If  a  man  plants  a  tree,  he 
knows  that  other  hands  than  his  will  gather 
the  fruit  ;  and  when  he  plants  it,  he  thinks 


68  Death  and  Dying. 

quite  as  much  of  those  other  hands  as  of  his 
own.  Thus  to  the  poet  there  is  the  dearer 
life  after  Hfe ;  and  posterity's  single  laurel 
leaf  is  valued  more  than  a  multitude  of  con- 
temporary bays.  Even  the  man  immersed 
in  money- making  does  not  make  money 
so  much  for  himself  as  for  those  who  may 
come  after  him.  Riches  in  noble  natures 
have  a  double  sweetness.  The  possessor 
enjoys  his  wealth,  and  he  heightens  that  en- 
joyment by  the  imaginative  entrance  into 
the  pleasure  which  his  son  or  his  nephew 
may  derive  from  it  when  he  is  away,  or  the 
high  uses  to  which  he  may  turn  it.  Seeing 
that  we  have  no  perpetual  lease  of  life  and 
its  adjuncts,  we  do  not  live  for  ourselves. 
And  thus  it  is  that  death,  which  we  are  ac- 
customed to  consider  an  evil,  really  acts  for 
us  the  friendliest  part,  and  takes  away  the 
commonplace  of  existence.  My  life,  and 
your  life,  flowing  on  thus  day  by  day,  is  a 
vapid  enough  piece  of  business  ;  but  when 
we  think  that  it  must  dose,  a  multitude  of 
considerations,  not  connected  with  ourselves 
but  with  others,  rush  in,  and  vapidity  van- 
ishes at  once.  Life,  if  it  were  to  flow  on  for- 
ever and  thus,  would  stagnate  and  rot.  The 
hopes,  and  fears,  and  regrets,  which  move 
and  trouble  it,  keep  it  fresh  and  healthy,  as 


Death  and  Dying.  69 

the  sea  is  kept  alive  by  the  trouble  of  its 
tides.  In  a  tolerably  comfortable  world, 
where  death  is  not,  it  is  difficult  to  see  from 
what  quarter  these  healthful  fears,  regrets, 
and  hopes  could  come.  As  it  is,  there  are 
agitations  and  sufferings  in  our  lots  enough  ; 
but  we  must  remember  that  it  is  on  account 
of  these  sufferings  and  agitations  that  we  be- 
come creatures  breathing  thoughtful  breath. 
As  has  already  been  said,  death  takes  away 
the  commonplace  of  life.  And  positively, 
when  one  looks  on  the  thousand  and  one 
poor,  foolish,  ignoble  faces  of  this  world,  and 
listens  to  the  chatter  as  poor  and  foolish  as 
the  faces,  one,  in  order  to  have  any  proper 
respect  for  them,  is  forced  to  remember  that 
solemnity  of  death,  which  is  silently  waiting. 
The  foolishest  person  will  look  grand  enough 
one  day.  The  features  are  poor  now,  but 
the  hottest  tears  and  the  most  passionate 
embraces  will  not  seem  out  of  place  then. 
If  you  wish  to  make  a  man  look  noble,  your 
best  course  is  to  kill  him.  What  superiority 
he  may  have  inherited  from  his  race,  what 
superiority  nature  may  have  personally 
gifted  him  with,  comes  out  in  death.  The 
passions  which  agitate,  distort,  and  change, 
are  gone  away  forever,  and  the  features 
settle  back  into  a  marble  calm,  which  is  the 


70  Death  and  Dying. 

man's  truest  image.  Then  the  most  affected 
look  sincere,  the  most  volatile,  serious  —  all 
noble,  more  or  less.  And  nature  will  not 
be  surprised  into  disclosures.  The  man 
stretched  out  there  may  have  been  voluble 
as  a  swallow,  but  now  —  when  he  could 
speak  to  some  purpose  —  neither  pyramid 
nor  sphinx  holds  a  secret  more  tenaciously. 

Consider,  then,  how  the  sense  of  imper- 
manence  brightens  beauty  and  elevates  hap- 
piness. Melancholy  is  always  attendant  on 
beauty,  and  that  melancholy  brings  out  its 
keenness  as  the  dark  green  corrugated  leaf 
brings  out  the  wan  loveliness  of  the  prim- 
rose. The  spectator  enjoys  the  beauty,  but 
his  knowledge  that  //  is  fleeting,  and  that  he 
fleeting,  adds  a  pathetic  something  to  it ;  and 
by  that  something  the  beautiful  object  and 
the  gazer  are  alike  raised. 

Everything  is  sweetened  by  risk.  The 
pleasant  emotion  is  mixed  and  deepened  by 
a  sense  of  mortality.  Those  lovers  who  have 
never  encountered  the  possibility  of  last  em- 
braces and  farewells  are  novices  in  the  pas- 
sion. Sunset  affects  us  more  powerfully 
than  sunrise,  simply  because  it  is  a  setting 
sun,  and  suggests  a  thousand  analogies.  A 
mother  is  never  happier  than  when  her  eyes 
fill  over  her  sleeping  child,  never  does  she 


Death  and  Dying.  71 

kiss  it  more  fondly,  never  does  she  pray  for 
it  more  fervently ;  and  yet  there  is  more  in 
her  heart  than  visible  red  cheek  and  yel- 
low curl ;  possession  and  bereavement  are 
strangely  mingled  in  the  exquisite  maternal 
mood,  the  one  heightening  the  other.  All 
great  joys  are  serious ;  and  emotion  must  be 
measured  by  its  complexity  and  the  deep- 
ness of  its  reach.  A  musician  may  draw 
pretty  notes  enough  from  a  single  key,  but 
the  richest  music  is  that  in  which  the  whole 
force  of  the  instrument  is  employed,  in  the 
production  of  which  every  key  is  vibrating  ; 
and,  although  full  of  solemn  touches  and 
majestic  tones,  the  final  effect  may  be  exu- 
berant and  gay.  Pleasures  which  rise  be- 
yond the  mere  gratification  of  the  senses  are 
dependant  for  their  exquisiteness  on  the 
number  and  variety  of  the  thoughts  which 
they  evoke.  And  that  joy  is  the  greatest 
which,  while  felt  to  be  joy,  can  include  the 
thought  of  death  and  clothe  itself  with  that 
crowning  pathos.  And  in  the  minds  of 
thoughtfiil  persons  every  joy  does,  more  or 
less,  with  the  crowning  pathos  clothe  itself. 
In  life  there  is  nothing  more  unexpected 
and  surprising  than  the  arrivals  and  depar- 
tures of  pleasure.  If  we  find  it  in  one  place 
to-day,  it  is  vain  to  seek  it  there  to-morrow. 


72  Death  and  Dying. 

You  cannot  lay  a  trap  for  it.  It  will  fall  into 
no  ambuscade,  concert  it  ever  so  cunningly. 
Pleasure  has  no  logic  ;  it  never  treads  in  its 
own  footsteps.  Into  our  commonplace  exist- 
ence it  comes  with  a  surprise,  like  a  pure 
white  swan  from  the  airy  void  into  the  ordi- 
nary village  lake  ;  and  just  as  the  swan,  for 
no  reason  that  can  be  discovered,  lifts  itself 
on  its  wings  and  betakes  itself  to  the  void 
again,  //  leaves  us,  and  our  sole  possession 
is  its  memory.  And  it  is  characteristic  of 
pleasure  that  we  can  never  recognise  it  to 
be  pleasure  till  after  it  is  gone.  Happiness 
never  lays  its  finger  on  its  pulse.  If  we  at- 
tempt to  steal  a  glimpse  of  its  features  it 
disappears.  It  is  a  gleam  of  unreckoned 
gold.  From  the  nature  of  the  case,  our  hap- 
piness, such  as  in  its  degree  it  has  been, 
lives  in  memory.  We  have  not  the  voice 
itself;  we  have  only  its  echo.  We  are  never 
happy  ;  we  can  only  remember  that  we  were 
so  once.  And  while  in  the  very  heart  and 
structure  of  the  happy  moment  there  lurked 
an  obscure  consciousness  of  death,  the  mem- 
ory in  which  past  happiness  dwells  is  always  a 
regretful  memory.  This  is  why  the  tritest  ut- 
terance about  the  past,  youth,  early  love,  and 
the  like,  has  always  about  it  an  indefinable 
flavour  of  poetry,  which  pleases  and  affects. 


Death  and  Dying.  73 

In  the  wake  of  a  ship  there  is  always  a  melan- 
choly splendour.  The  finest  set  of  verses  of 
our  modern  time  describes  how  the  poet  gazed 
on  the  "  happy  autumn  fields,"  and  remem- 
bered the  "  days  that  were  no  more."  After 
all,  a  man's  real  possession  is  his  memory. 
In  nothing  else  is  he  rich,  in  nothing  else  is 
he  poor. 

In  our  warm  imaginative  youth,  death  is 
far  removed  from  us,  and  attains  thereby  a 
certain  picturesqueness.  The  grim  thought 
stands  in  the  ideal  world  as  a  ruin  stands  in 
a  blooming  landscape.  The  thought  of  death 
sheds  a  pathetic  charm  over  everything  then. 
The  young  man  cools  himself  with  a  thought 
of  the  winding-sheet  and  the  charnel,  as  the 
heated  dancer  cools  himself  on  the  balcony 
with  the  night-air.  The  young  imagination 
plays  with  the  idea  of  death,  makes  a  toy  of 
it,  just  as  a  child  plays  with  edge-tools  till 
once  it  cuts  its  fingers.  The  most  lugu- 
brious poetry  is  written  by  very  young  and 
tolerably  comfortable  persons.  When  a 
man's  mood  becomes  really  serious  he  has 
little  taste  for  such  foolery.  The  man  who 
has  a  grave  or  two  in  his  heart,  does  not 
need  to  haunt  churchyards.  The  young  poet 
uses  death  as  an  antithesis  ;  and  when  he 
shocks  his  reader  by   some  flippant   use  of 


74  Death  and  Dying. 

it  in  that  way,  he  considers  he  has  written 
something  mightily  fine.  In  his  gloomiest 
mood  he  is  most  insincere,  most  egotistical, 
most  pretentious.  The  older  and  wiser  poet 
avoids  the  subject  as  he  does  the  memory  of 
pain  -y  or  when  he  does  refer  to  it,  he  does 
so  in  a  reverential  manner,  and  with  some 
sense  of  its  solemnity  and  of  the  magnitude 
of  its  issues.  It  was  in  that  year  of  revelry, 
1 814,  and  while  undressing  from  balls,  that 
Lord  Byron  wrote  his  "  Lara,"  as  he  informs 
us.  Disrobing,  and  haunted,  in  all  probabil- 
ity, by  eyes  in  whose  light  he  was  happy 
enough,  the  spoiled  young  man,  who  then 
affected  death- pallors,  and  wished  the  world 
to  believe  that  he  felt  his  richest  wines  pow- 
dered with  the  dust  of  graves,  —  of  which 
wine,  notwithstanding,  he  frequently  took 
more  than  was  good  for  him,  —  wrote, 

"  That  sleep  the  loveliest,  since  it  dreams  the 
least." 

The  sleep  referred  to  being  death.  This  was 
meant  to  take  away  the  reader's  breath  ;  and 
after  performing  the  feat,  Byron  betook  him- 
self to  his  pillow  with  a  sense  of  supreme 
cleverness.  Contrast  with  this  Shakspeare's 
far  out-looking  and  thought-heavy  lines  — 
lines  which,  under  the  same  image,  represent 
death  — 


Death  and  Dying.  75 

"  To  die  —  to  sleep  ;  — 
To  sleep  1  perchance  to  dream  ;  —  ay,  there  's  the  rub ; 
For  in  that  sleep  of  death  what  dreams  may  come  !  " 

And  you  see  at  once  how  a  man's  notions  of 
death  and  dying  are  deepened  by  a  wider  ex- 
perience. Middle  age  may  fear  death  quite 
as  little  as  youth  fears  it ;  but  it  has  learned 
seriousness,  and  it  has  no  heart  to  poke  fun 
at  the  lean  ribs,  or  to  call  it  fond  names  like 
a  lover,  or  to  stick  a  primrose  in  its  grinning 
chaps,  and  draw  a  strange  pleasure  from  the 
irrelevancy. 

The  man  who  has  reached  thirty,  feels  at 
times  as  if  he  had  come  out  of  a  great  battle. 
Comrade  after  comrade  has  fallen  ;  his  own 
life  seems  to  have  been  charmed.  And  know- 
ing how  it  fared  with  his  friends  —  perfect 
health  one  day,  a  catarrh  the  next,  blinds 
drawn  down,  silence  in  the  house,  blubbered 
faces  of  widow  and  orphans,  intimation  of 
the  event  in  the  newspapers,  with  a  request 
that  friends  will  accept  of  it,  the  day  after  — 
a  man,  as  he  draws  near  middle  age,  begins 
to  suspect  every  transient  indisposition  ;  to 
be  careful  of  being  caught  in  a  shower,  to 
shudder  at  sitting  in  wet  shoes  ;  he  feels  his 
pulse,  he  anxiously  peruses  his  face  in  a 
mirror,  he  becomes  critical  as  to  the  colour 
of  his  tongue.     In  early  life  illness  is  a  lux- 


•J 6  Death  and  Dying. 

ury,  and  draws  out  toward  the  sufferer  curi- 
ous and  delicious  tendernesses,  which  are 
felt  to  be  a  full  over-payment  of  pain  and 
weakness  ;  then  there  is  the  pleasant  period 
of  convalescence,  when  one  tastes  a  core  and 
marrow  of  delight  in  meats,  drinks,  sleep, 
silence  ;  the  bunch  of  newly-plucked  flowers 
on  the  table,  the  sedulous  attentions  and 
patient  forbearance  of  nurses  and  friends. 
Later  in  life,  when  one  occupies  a  post,  and 
is  in  discharge  of  duties  which  are  accumu- 
lating against  recovery,  illness  and  convales- 
cence cease  to  be  luxuries.  Illness  is  felt 
to  be  a  cruel  interruption  of  the  ordinary 
course  of  things,  and  the  sick  person  is  har- 
assed by  a  sense  of  the  loss  of  time  and  the 
loss  of  strength.  He  is  placed  hors  de  cotn- 
bat ;  all  the  while  he  is  conscious  that  the 
battle  is  going  on  around  him,  and  he  feels 
his  temporary  withdrawal  a  misfortune.  Of 
course,  unless  a  man  is  very  unhappily  cir- 
cumstanced, he  has  in  his  later  illnesses  all 
the  love,  patience,  and  attention  which  sweet- 
ened his  earlier  ones ;  but  then  he  cannot 
rest  in  them,  and  accept  them  as  before  as 
compensation  in  full.  The  world  is  ever 
with  him  ;  through  his  interests  and  his  af- 
fections he  has  meshed  himself  in  an  intri- 
cate   net-work   of   relationships    and    other 


Deatli  and  Dying.  11 

dependences,  and  a  fatal  issue  —  which  in 
such  cases  is  ever  on  the  cards  —  would  de- 
stroy all  these,  and  bring  about  more  serious 
matters  than  the  shedding  of  tears.  In  a 
man's  earlier  illnesses,  too,  he  had  not  only 
no  such  definite  future  to  work  out,  he  had 
a  stronger  spring  of  life  and  hope  ;  he  was 
rich  in  time,  and  could  wait ;  and  lying  in  his 
chamber  now,  he  cannot  help  remembering 
that,  as  Mr,  Thackeray  expresses  it,  there 
comes  at  last  an  illness  to  which  there  may 
be  no  convalescence.  What  if  that  illness 
be  already  come?  And  so  there  is  nothing 
left  for  him,  but  to  bear  the  rod  with  pa- 
tience, and  to  exercise  a  humble  faith  in  the 
Ruler  of  all.  If  he  recovers,  some  half-dozen 
people  will  be  made  happy ;  if  he  does  not 
recover,  the  same  number  of  people  will  be 
made  miserable  for  a  little  while,  and,  dur- 
ing the  next  two  or  three  days,  acquain- 
tances will  meet  in  the  street  —  "  You  've 
heard  of  poor  So-and-so  ?  Very  sudden  ! 
Who    would   have    thought    it?      Expect   to 

meet  you  at 's  on  Thursday.  Good-bye." 

And  so  to  the  end.  Your  death  and  my 
death  are  mainly  of  importance  to  ourselves. 
The  black  plumes  will  be  stripped  off  our 
hearses  within  the  hour  ;  tears  will  dry,  hurt 
hearts  close  again,  our  graves  grow  level 
with  the   church-yard,  and  although  we  are 


78  Death  aiid  Dying. 

away,  the  world  wags  on.  It  does  not  miss 
us ;  and  those  who  are  near  us,  when  the 
first  strangeness  of  vacancy  wears  off,  will 
not  miss  us   much  either. 

We  are  curious  as  to  death-beds  and  death- 
bed sayings ;  we  wish  to  know  how  the  mat- 
ter stands ;  how  the  whole  thing  looks  to 
the  dying.  Unhappily  —  perhaps,  on  the 
whole,  happily  —  we  can  gather  no  informa- 
tion from  these.  The  dying  are  nearly  as 
reticent  as  the  dead.  The  inferences  we  draw 
from  the  circumstances  of  death,  the  pallor, 
the  sob,  the  glazing  eye,  are  just  as  likely  to 
mislead  us  as  not.  Manfred  exclaims,  "  Old 
man,  'tis  not  so  difficult  to  die  !  "  Sterling 
wrote  Carlyle  "  that  it  was  all  very  strange, 
yet  not  so  strange  as  it  seemed  to  the  look- 
ers on."  And  so,  perhaps,  on  the  whole  it  is. 
The  world  has  lasted  six  thousand  years  now, 
and,  with  the  exception  of  those  at  pres- 
ent alive,  the  millions  who  have  breathed 
upon  it  —  splendid  emperors,  horny-fisted 
clowns,  little  children,  in  whom  thought  has 
never  stirred  —  have  died,  and  what  they  have 
done,  we  also  shall  be  able  to  do.  It  may 
not  be  so  difficult,  may  not  be  so  terrible,  as 
our  fears  whisper.  The  dead  keep  their 
secrets,  and  in  a  little  while  we  shall  be  as 
wise  as  they  —  and  as  taciturn. 


'F  it  be  assumed  that  the  North 
Briton  is,  to  an  appreciable  ex- 
tent, a  different  creature  from 
the  Englishman,  the  assumption 
is  not  likely  to  provoke  dispute.  No  one 
will  deny  us  the  prominence  of  our  cheek- 
bones, and  our  pride  in  the  same.  How  far 
the  difference  extends,  whether  it  involves 
merit  or  demerit,  are  questions  not  now 
sought  to  be  settled.  Nor  is  it  important  to 
discover  how  the  difference  arose ;  how  far 
chiller  climate  and  sourer  soil,  centuries  of 
unequal  yet  not  inglorious  conflict,  a  sepa- 
rate race  of  kings,  a  body  of  separate  tradi- 
tions, and  a  peculiar  crisis  of  reformation 
issuing  in  peculiar  forms  of  religious  worship, 
confirmed  and  strengthened  the  national 
idiosyncrasy.  If  a  difference  between  the 
races  be  allowed,  it  is  sufficient  for  the  pres- 
ent purpose.  That  allowed,  and  Scot  and 
Southern  being  fecund  in  literary  genius,  it 


8o  Dunbar. 

becomes  an  interesting  inquiry  to  what  ex- 
tent the  great  literary  men  of  the  one  race 
have  influenced  the  great  Uterary  men  of 
the  other.  On  the  whole,  perhaps,  the  two 
races  may  fairly  cry  quits.  Not  unfre- 
quently,  indeed,  have  literary  influences 
arisen  in  the  north  and  travelled  southwards. 
There  were  the  Scottish  ballads,  for  instance, 
there  was  Burns,  there  was  Sir  Walter  Scott, 
there  is  Mr.  Carlyle.  The  literary  influence 
represented  by  each  of  these  arose  in  Scot- 
land, and  has  either  passed  or  is  passing  "  in 
music  out  of  sight  "  in  England.  The  energy 
of  the  northern  wave  has  rolled  into  the 
southern  waters.  On  the  other  hand,  we 
can  mark  the  literary  influences  travelling 
from  the  south  northward.  The  English 
Chaucer  rises,  and  the  current  of  his  influ- 
ence is  long  afterwards  visible  in  the  Scot- 
tish King  James,  and  the  Scottish  poet 
Dunbar.  That  which  was  Prior  and  Gay  in 
London,  became  Allan  Ramsay  when  it 
reached  Edinburgh.  Inspiration,  not  unfre- 
quently,  has  travelled,  like  summer,  from 
the  south  northwards ;  just  as,  when  the  day 
is  over,  and  the  lamps  are  lighted  in  London, 
the  radiance  of  the  setting  sun  is  lingering 
on  the  splintered  peaks  and  rosy  friths  of 
the  Hebrides.     All  this,  however,  is  a  matter 


Dunbar.  8 1 

of  the  past ;  literary  influence  can  no  longer 
be  expected  to  travel  leisurely  from  south 
to  north,  or  from  north  to  south.  In  times 
of  literary  activity,  as  at  the  beginning  of 
the  present  century,  the  atmosphere  of 
passion  or  speculation  envelop  the  entire 
island,  and  Scottish  and  English  writers  si- 
multaneously draw  from  it  what  their  pecu- 
liar natures  prompt  —  just  as  in  the  same 
garden  the  rose  drinks  crimson  and  the  con- 
volvulus azure  from  the  superincumbent 
air. 

Chaucer  must  always  remain  a  name  in 
British  literary  history.  He  appeared  at  a 
time  when  the  Saxon  and  Norman  races  had 
become  fused,  and  when  ancient  bitternesses 
were  lost  in  the  proud  title  of  Englishman. 
He  was  the  first  great  poet  the  island  pro- 
duced ;  and  he  wrote  for  the  most  part  in 
the  language  of  the  people,  with  just  the 
slightest  infusion  of  the  courtlier  Norman 
element,  which  gives  to  his  writings  some- 
thing of  the  high-bred  air  that  the  short 
upper- lip  gives  to  the  human  countenance. 
In  his  earlier  poems  he  was  under  the  influ- 
ence of  the  Provengal  Troubadours,  and  in 
his  "  Flower  and  the  Leaf,"  and  other  works 
of  a  similar  class,  he  riots  in  allegory  ;  he  rep- 
resents the  cardinal  virtues  walking  about 
6 


82  Dunbar. 

in  human  shape  ;  his  forests  are  full  of  beau- 
tiful ladies  with  coronals  on  their  heads ; 
courts  of  love  are  held  beneath  the  spread- 
ing elm,  and  metaphysical  goldfinches  and 
nightingales,  perched  among  the  branches 
green,  wrangle  melodiously  about  the  tender 
passion.  In  these  poems  he  is  fresh,  charm- 
ing, fanciful  as  the  spring-time  itself:  ever 
picturesque,  ever  musical,  and  with  a  homely 
touch  and  stroke  of  irony  here  and  there, 
suggesting  a  depth  of  serious  matter  in  him 
which  it  needed  years  only  to  develop.  He 
lived  in  a  brilliant  and  stirring  time ;  he 
was  connected  with  the  court ;  he  served  in 
armies ;  he  visited  the  Continent ;  and, 
although  a  silent  man,  he  carried  with  him, 
wherever  he  went,  and  into  whatever  com- 
pany he  was  thrown,  the  most  observant 
eyes  perhaps  that  ever  looked  curiously  out 
upon  the  world.  There  was  nothing  too 
mean  or  too  trivial  for  his  regard.  After 
parting  with  a  man,  one  fancies  that  he 
knew  every  line  and  wrinkle  of  his  face,  had 
marked  the  travel-stains  on  his  boots,  and 
had  counted  the  slashes  of  his  doublet.  And 
so  it  was  that,  after  mixing  in  kings'  courts, 
and  sitting  with  friars  in  taverns,  and  talking 
with  people  on  country  roads,  and  travelling 
in    France    and   Italy,   and    making    himself 


Dunbar.  2)-i^ 

master  of  the  literature,  science,  and  theol- 
ogy of  his  time,  and  when  perhaps  touched 
with  misfortune  and  sorrow,  he  came  to  see 
the  depth  of  interest  that  resides  in  actual 
life,  —  that  the  rudest  clown  even,  with  his 
sordid  humours  and  coarse  speech,  is  intrin- 
sically more  valuable  than  a  whole  forest 
full  of  goddesses,  or  innumerable  processions 
of  cardinal  virtues,  however  well  mounted 
and  splendidly  attired.  It  was  in  some  such 
mood  of  mind  that  Chaucer  penned  those 
unparalleled  pictures  of  contemporary  life 
that  delight  yet,  after  five  centuries  have 
come  and  gone.  It  is  difificult  to  define 
Chaucer's  charm.  He  does  not  indulge  in 
fine  sentiment ;  he  has  no  bravura  pas- 
sages ;  he  is  ever  master  of  himself  and  of  his 
subject.  The  light  upon  his  page  is  the  light 
of  common  day.  Although  povverful  deline- 
ations of  passion  may  be  found  in  his  "  Tales," 
and  wonderful  descriptions  of  nature,  and 
although  certain  of  the  passages  relating  to 
Constance  and  Griselda  in  their  deep  dis- 
tresses are  unrivalled  in  tenderness,  neither 
passion,  nor  natural  description,  nor  pathos, 
are  his  striking  characteristics.  It  is  his 
shrewdness,  his  conciseness,  his  ever-present 
humour,  his  frequent  irony,  and  his  short, 
homely  line  —  effective  as  the  play   of  the 


84  Diinhar. 

short  Roman  sword  —  which  strikes  the 
reader  most.  In  the  "Prologue  to  the  Can- 
terbury Tales  "  —  by  far  the  ripest  thing  he 
has  done  —  he  seems  to  be  writing  the  easiest, 
most  idiomatic  prose,  but  it  is  poetry  all  the 
while.  He  is  a  poet  of  natural  manner,  deal- 
ing with  out-door  life.  Perhaps,  on  the 
whole,  the  writer  who  most  resembles  him 
—  superficial  differences  apart  —  is  Fielding. 
In  both  there  is  constant  shrewdness  and 
common-sense,  a  constant  feeling  of  the 
comic  side  of  things,  a  moral  instinct  which 
escapes  in  irony,  never  in  denunciation  or 
fanaticism;  no  remarkable  spirituality  of  feel- 
ing, an  acceptance  of  the  world  as  a  pleasant 
enough  place,  provided  good  dinners  and  a 
sufficiency  of  cash  are  to  be  had,  and  that 
healthy  relish  for  fact  and  reality,  and  scorn 
of  humbug  of  all  kinds,  especially  of  that 
particular  phase  of  it  which  makes  one  ap- 
pear better  than  one  is,  which  —  for  want  of 
a  better  term  —  we  are  accustomed  to  call 
English.  Chaucer  was  a  Conservative  in  all 
his  feelings  ;  he  liked  to  poke  his  fun  at  the 
clergy,  but  he  was  not  of  the  stuff  of  which 
martyrs  are  made.  He  loved  good  eating  and 
drinking,  and  studious  leisure  and])eace  ;  and 
although  in  his  ordinary  moods  shrewd, 
and  observant,  and  satirical,  his  higher  genius 


Dunbar.  85 

would  now  and  then  splendidly  assert  itself 
—  and  behold  the  tournament  at  Athens, 
where  kings  are  combatants  and  Emily  the 
prize ;  or  the  little  boat,  containing  the 
brain-bewildered  Constance  and  her  child, 
wandering  hither  and  thither  on  the  friendly 
sea. 

Chaucer  was  born  about  1328,  and  died 
about  1380;  and  although  he  had,  both  in 
Scotland  and  England,  contemporaries  and 
immediate  successors,  no  one  of  them  can 
be  compared  with  him  for  a  moment.  The 
"  Moral  Gower  "  was  his  friend,  and  inherited 
his  tediousness  and  pedantry  without  a 
sparkle  of  his  fancy,  passion,  humour,  wis- 
dom, and  good  spirits.  Occleve  and  Lydgate 
followed  in  the  next  generation ;  and  al- 
though their  names  are  retained  in  literary 
histories,  no  line  or  sentence  of  theirs  has 
found  a  place  in  human  memory.  The  Scot- 
tish contemporary  of  Chaucer  was  Barbour, 
who  although  deficient  in  tenderness  and 
imagination,  deserves  praise  for  his  sinewy 
and  occasionally  picturesque  verse.  "  The 
Bruce  "  is  really  a  fine  poem.  The  hero  is 
noble,  resolute,  and  wise.  Sir  James  Doug- 
las is  a  very  perfect,  gentle  knight.  The 
old  Churchman  had  the  true  poetic  fire  in 
him.     He  rises  into  eloquence  in  an  apos- 


86  Dunbar. 

trophe  to  Freedom,  and  he  fights  the  battle 
of  Bannockburn  over  again  with  great  valour, 
shouting,  and  flapping  of  standards.  In 
England,  nature  seemed  to  have  exhausted 
herself  in  Chaucer,  and  she  lay  quiescent 
till  Lord  Surrey  and  Sir  Thomas  Wyatt  came, 
the  immediate  precursors  of  Spenser,  Shaks- 
peare,  and  their  companions. 

While  in  England  the  note  of  the  nightin- 
gale suddenly  ceased,  to  be  succeeded  by  the 
mere  chirping  of  the  barn-door  sparrows, 
the  divine  and  melancholy  voice  began  to 
be  heard  further  north.  It  was  during  that 
most  barren  period  of  English  poetry  —  ex- 
tending from  Chaucer's  death  till  the  be- 
ginning of  Elizabeth's  reign  —  that  Scottish 
poetry  arose,  suddenly,  splendidly  —  to  be 
matched  only  by  that  other  uprising  nearer 
our  own  time,  equally  unexpected  and  splen- 
did, of  Burns  and  Scott.  And  it  is  curious 
to  notice  in  this  brilliant  outburst  of  north- 
ern genius  how  much  is  owing  to  Chaucer ; 
the  cast  of  language  is  identical,  the  literary 
form  is  the  same,  there  is  the  same  way  of 
looking  at  nature,  the  same  allegorical  for- 
ests, the  troops  of  ladies,  the  same  proces- 
sions of  cardinal  virtues.  James  I.,  whose 
long  captivity  in  England  made  him  ac- 
quainted    with     Chaucer's     works    was    the 


Dunbar.  87 

leader  of  the  poetic  movement  which  cul- 
minated in  Dunbar,  and  died  away  in  Sir 
David  Lindsay  just  before  the  noise  and 
turmoil  of  the  Reformation  set  in.  In  the 
concluding  stanza  of  the  '•  Quair,"  James 
records  his  obligation  to  those  — 

"  Masters  dear, 
Gower  and  Chaucer,  that  on  the  steppes  sate 

Of  retorick,  while  they  were  livand  here, 
Superlative  as  poets  laureate 
Of  morality  and  eloquence  ornate." 

But  while,  during  the  reigns  of  the  Jameses, 
Scottish  genius  was  being  acted  upon  by  the 
broader  and  deeper  genius  of  England,  Scot- 
land, quite  unconsciously  to  herself,  was 
preparing  a  liquidation  in  full  of  all  spiritual 
obligations.  For  even  then,  in  obscure 
nooks  and  corners,  the  Scottish  ballads  were 
growing  up,  quite  uncontrolled  by  critical 
rules,  rude  in  structure  and  expression,  yet, 
at  the  same  time,  full  of  vitality,  retaining  in 
all  their  keenness  the  mirth  of  rustic  festi- 
vals, and  the  piteousness  of  domestic  trage- 
dies. The  stormy  feudal  time  out  of  which 
they  arose  crumbled  by  process  of  gradual 
decay,  but  they  remained,  made  brighter  by 
each  succeeding  summer,  like  the  wild- 
flowers  that  blow  in  the  chinks  of  ruins. 
And  when  English  poetry  had  become  arti- 


88  Dunbar. 

ficial  and  cold,  the  lucubrations  of  forgotten 
Scottish  minstrels,  full  of  the  touches  that 
make  the  whole  world  kin,  brought  new  life 
with  them.  Scotland  had  invaded  England 
more  than  once,  but  the  blue  bonnets  never 
went  over  the  border  so  triumphantly  as 
when  they  did  so  in  the  shape  of  songs  and 
ballads. 

James  IV.,  if  not  the  wisest,  was  certainly 
the  most  brilliant  monarch  of  his  name  ;  and 
he  was  fortunate  beyond  the  later  Stuarts  in 
this,  that  during  his  lifetime  no  new  popular 
tide  had  set  in  which  it  behooved  him  to 
oppose  or  to  float  upon.  For  him  in  all  its 
essentials  to-day  had  flowed  quietly  out  of 
yesterday,  and  he  lived  unperplexed  by  fear 
of  change.  With  something  of  a  Southern 
gaiety  of  spirit,  he  was  a  merrier  monarch 
than  his  dark- featured  and  saturnine  descen- 
dant who  bore  the  appellation.  He  was  fond 
of  martial  sports,  he  loved  to  glitter  at  tour- 
naments, his  court  was  crowded  with  singing 
men  and  singing  women.  Yet  he  had  his 
gloomy  moods  and  superstitious  desponden- 
cies. He  could  not  forget  that  he  had  ap- 
peared in  arms  against  his  father;  even 
while  he  whispered  in  the  ear  of  beauty  the 
iron  belt  of  penance  was  fretting  his  side, 
and  he  alternated   the   splendid   revel    with 


Dunbar.  89 

the  cell  of  the  monk.  In  these  days,  and 
for  long  after,  the  Borders  were  disturbed, 
and  the  Highland  clans,  setting  royal  author- 
ity at  defiance,  were  throttling  each  other  in 
their  mists.  The  Catholic  religion  was  yet 
unsapped,  and  the  wealth  of  the  country 
resided  in  the  hands  of  the  nobles  and  the 
churchmen.  Edinburgh  towered  high  on 
the  ridge  between  Holyrood  and  the  Cas- 
tle, its  streets  reddened  with  feud  at  inter- 
vals, and  its  merchants  clustering  round  the 
Cathedral  of  St.  Giles  like  bees  in  a  honey- 
comb ;  and  the  king,  when  he  looked  across 
the  faint  azure  of  the  Forth,  beheld  the  long 
coast  of  Fife  dotted  with  little  towns,  where 
ships  were  moored  that  traded  with  France 
and  Holland,  and  brought  with  them  cargoes 
of  silk  and  wines.  James  was  a  popular 
monarch  ;  he  was  beloved  by  the  nobles  and 
by  the  people.  He  loved  justice,  he  culti- 
vated his  marine,  and  he  built  the  Great 
Michael — the  Great  Eastern  of  that  day. 
He  had  valiant  seamen,  and  more  than  once 
Barton  sailed  into  Leith  with  a  string  of  Eng- 
lish prizes.  When  he  fell  with  all  his  nobility 
at  Flodden,  there  came  upon  Scotland  the 
woe  with  which  she  was  so  famihar  — 

"  Woe  to  that  realme  that  haith  an  ower  young 
king." 


90 


Dunbar. 


A  long  regency  followed ;  disturbing  ele- 
ments of  religion  entered  into  the  life  of  the 
nation,  and  the  historical  stream  which  had 
flowed  smoothly  for  a  series  of  years  became 
all  at  once  convulsed  and  turbulent,  as  if  it 
had  entered  upon  a  gorge  of  rapids.  It  was 
in  this  pleasant  interregnum  of  the  reign  of 
the  fourth  James,  when  ancient  disorders 
had  to  a  certain  extent  been  repressed,  and 
when  religious  difficulties  ahead  were  yet 
undreamed  of,  that  the  poet  Dunbar  flour- 
ished —  a  nightingale  singing  in  a  sunny  lull 
of  the  Scottish  historical  storm. 

Modern  readers  are  acquainted  with  Dun- 
bar chiefly  through  the  medium  of  Mr.  David 
Laing's  beautiful  edition  of  his  works  pub- 
lished in  1834,  and  by  good  Dr.  Irving's 
intelligent  and  admirable  compacted  "  His- 
tory of  Scottish  Poetry,"  published  the  other 
day.  Irving's  work,  if  deficient  somewhat  in 
fluency  and  grace  of  style,  is  characterised 
by  conscientiousness  of  statement  and  by 
the  ripest  knowledge.  Yet,  despite  the  re- 
searches of  these  competent  writers,  of  the 
events  of  the  poet's  life  not  much  is  known. 
He  was  born  about  1460,  and  from  an  un- 
quotable allusion  in  one  of  his  poems,  he  is 
supposed  to  have  been  a  native  of  the  Loth- 
ians.     His  name  occurs  in  the  register  of  the 


Dunbar.  91 

University  of  St.  Andrews  as  a  Bachelor  of 
Arts.  With  the  exception  of  these  entries 
in  the  college  register,  there  is  nothing  au- 
thentically known  of  his  early  life.  We  have 
no  portrait  of  him,  and  cannot  by  that  means 
decipher  him.  We  do  not  know  with  cer- 
tainty from  what  family  he  sprang.  Beyond 
what  light  his  poems  may  throw  on  them, 
we  have  no  knowledge  of  his  habits  and  per- 
sonal tastes.  He  exists  for  the  most  part  in 
rumour,  and  the  vague  shadows  of  things. 
It  appears  that  in  early  life  he  became  a  friar 
of  the  order  of  St.  Francis  ;  and  in  the  capa- 
city of  a  travelling  priest  tells  us  that  "  he 
preached  in  Derntown  kirk  and  in  Canter- 
bury ;  "  that  he  "  passed  at  Dover  across  the 
Channel,  and  went  through  Picardy  teach- 
ing the  people."  He  does  not  seem  to  have 
taken  kindly  to  his  profession.  His  works 
are  full  of  sarcastic  allusions  to  the  clergy, 
and  in  no  measured  terms  he  denounces 
their  luxury,  their  worldly- mindedness,  and 
their  desire  for  high  place  and  fat  livings. 
Yet  these  denunciations  have  no  very  spirit- 
ual origin.  His  rage  is  the  rage  of  a  disap- 
pointed candidate,  rather  than  of  a  prophet ; 
and,  to  the  last,  he  seems  to  have  expected 
preferment  in  the  Church.  Not  without  a 
certain  pathos  he  writes,  when  he  had   be- 


9  3  Dunbar. 

come  familiar  with  disappointment,  and  the 
sickness  of  hope  deferred  — 

"  1  wes  in  youth  an  nureiss  knee, 
Dandely !  hischop,  dandely ! 
And  qiihen  that  age  now  dois  me  greif, 
Ane  sempill  vicar  I  can  nocht  be." 

It  is  not  known  when  he  entered  the  ser- 
vice of  King  James.  P'rom  his  poems  it 
appears  that  he  was  employed  as  a  clerk 
or  secretary  in  several  of  the  missions  de- 
spatched to  foreign  courts.  It  is  difficult 
to  guess  in  what  capacity  Dunbar  served  at 
Holyrood.  He  was  all  his  life  a  priest,  and 
expected  preferment  from  his  royal  patron. 
We  know  that  he  performed  mass  in  the 
presence.  Yet  when  the  king  in  one  of  his 
dark  moods  had  withdrawn  from  the  gaieties 
of  the  capital  to  the  religious  gloom  of  the 
convent  of  Franciscans  at  Stirling,  we  find 
the  poet  inditing  a  parody  on  the  machinery 
of  the  Church,  calling  on  Father,  Son,  and 
Holy  Spirit,  and  on  all  the  saints  of  the  cal- 
endar, to  transport  the  princely  penitent 
from  Stirling,  "  where  ale  is  thin  and  small," 
to  Edinburgh,  where  there  is  abundance  of 
swans,  cranes,  and  plovers,  and  the  fragrant 
clarets  of  France.  And  in  another  of  his 
poems,  he  describes  himself  as  dancing  in 
the   queen's    chamber    so   zealously  that   he 


Dunbar.  93 

lost  one  of  his  slippers,  a  mishap  which  pro- 
voked her  Majesty  to  great  mirth.  Probably, 
as  the  king  was  possessed  of  considerable 
literary  taste,  and  could  appreciate  Dunbar's 
fancy  and  satire,  he  kept  him  attached  to  his 
person,  with  the  intention  of  conferring  a 
benefice  on  him  when  one  fell  vacant ;  and 
when  a  benefice  did  fall  vacant,  felt  com- 
pelled to  bestow  it  on  the  cadet  of  some 
powerful  family  in  the  state,  —  for  it  was 
always  the  policy  of  James  to  stand  well  with 
his  nobles.  He  remembered  too  well  the 
deaths  of  his  father  and  great-grandfather  to 
give  unnecessary  offense  to  his  great  barons. 
From  his  connexion  with  the  court,  the 
poet's  life  may  be  briefly  epitomised.  In 
August,  1500,  his  royal  master  granted  Dun- 
bar an  annual  pension  of  ^10  for  life,  or  till 
such  time  as  he  should  be  promoted  to  a 
benefice  of  the  annual  value  of  ^40.  In 
1 501,  he  visited  England  in  the  train  of  the 
ambassadors  sent  thither  to  negotiate  the 
king's  marriage.  The  marriage  took  place 
in  May,  1503,  on  which  occasion  the  high- 
piled  capital  wore  holiday  attire,  balconies 
blazed  with  scarlet  cloth,  and  the  loyal  multi- 
tude shouted  as  bride  and  bridegroom  rode 
past,  with  the  chivalry  of  two  kingdoms  in 
their  train.     Ivirly  in  May,  Dunbar  composed 


94  Dunhai-. 

his  most  celebrated  poem  in  honour  of  the 
event.  Next  year  he  said  mass  in  the  king's 
l)resence  for  the  first  time,  and  received  a 
liberal  reward.  In  1505,  he  received  a  sum 
in  addition  to  his  stated  pension,  and  two 
years  thereafter  his  pension  was  doubled.  In 
August,  15 10,  his  pension  was  increased  to 
^80  per  annum,  until  he  became  possessed 
of  a  benefice  of  the  annual  value  of  p^^ioo  or 
upwards.  In  15 13,  Flodden  was  fought,  and 
in  the  confusion  consequent  on  the  king's 
death,  Dunbar  and  his  slowly-increasing  pen- 
sions disappear  from  the  records  of  things. 
We  do  not  know  whether  he  received  his 
benefice  ;  we  do  not  know  the  date  of  his 
death,  and  to  this  day  his  grave  is  secret  as 
the  grave  of  Moses. 

Knowing  but  little  of  Dunbar's  life,  our 
interest  is  naturally  concentrated  on  what 
of  his  writings  remain  to  us.  And  to  mod- 
ern eyes  the  old  poet  is  a  singular  spectacle. 
His  language  is  different  than  ours ;  his 
mental  structure  and  modes  of  thought  are 
unfamiliar;  in  his  intellectual  world,  as  we 
map  it  out  to  ourselves,  it  is  difficult  to  con- 
ceive how  a  comfortable  existence  could  be 
attained.  Times,  manners,  and  ideas  have 
changed,  and  we  look  upon  Dunbar  with  a 
certain  reverential  wonder  and  curiosity  as 


u 
.J 
h— 
in 

u 


-^ 


^r 


Dunhar.  95 

we  look  upon  '^antallon,  standing  up,  grim 
and  gray,  in  the  midst  of  the  modern  land- 
scape. The  grand  old  fortress  is  a  remnant 
of  a  state  of  things  which  have  utterly  passed 
away.  Curiously,  as  we  walk  beside  it,  we 
think  of  the  actual  human  life  its  walls  con- 
tained. In  those  great  fire-places  logs  ac- 
tually burned  once,  and  in  winter  nights 
men-at-arms  spread  out  big  palms  against 
the  grateful  heat.  In  those  empty  apart- 
ments was  laughter,  and  feasting,  and  serious 
talk  enough  in  troublous  times,  and  births, 
and  deaths,  and  the  bringing  home  of  brides 
in  their  blushes.  This  empty  moat  was 
filled  with  water,  to  keep  at  bay  long-for- 
gotten enemies,  and  yonder  loop-hole  was 
made  narrow,  as  a  protection  from  long- 
moulded  arrows.  In  Tantallon  we  know 
the  Douglasses  lived  in  state,  and  bearded 
kings,  and  hung  out  banners  to  the  breeze  ;  • 
but  a  sense  of  wonder  is  mingled  with  our 
knowledge,  for  the  bothy  of  the  Lothian 
farmer  is  even  more  in  accordance  with 
our  methods  of  conducting  life.  Dunbar 
affects  us  similarly.  We  know  that  he  pos- 
sessed a  keen  intellect,  a  blossoming  fancy, 
a  satiric  touch  that  blistered,  a  melody  that 
enchanted  Northern  ears ;  but  then  we  have 
lost  the  story  of  his  life,  and  from  his  poems. 


gS  Dunbar. 

with  their  wonderful  contrasts,  the  deUcacy 
and  spring-Hke  flush  of  feeling,  the  piety, 
the  freedom  of  speech,  the  irreverent  use 
of  the  sacredest  names,  the  "  Fly  ting  "  and 
the  "  Lament  for  the  Makars,"  there  is  diffi- 
culty in  making  one's  ideas  of  him  cohere. 
He  is  present  to  the  imagination,  and  yet 
remote.  Like  Tantallon,  he  is  a  portion  of 
the  past.  A\'e  are  separated  from  him  by 
centuries,  and  that  chasm  we  are  unable  to 
bridge  properly. 

The  first  thing  that  strikes  the  reader  of 
these  poems  is  their  variety  and  intellectual 
range.  It  may  be  said  that  —  partly  from 
constitutional  turn  of  thought,  partly  from 
the  turbulent  and  chaotic  time  in  which  he 
lived,  when  femilies  rose  to  splendour  and  as 
suddenly  collapsed,  when  the  steed  that  bore 
his  rider  at  morning  to  the  hunting-field  re- 
turned at  evening  masterless  to  the  castle - 
gate  —  Dunbar's  prevailing  mood  of  mind  is 
melancholy  ;  that  he,  with  a  certain  fondness 
for  the  subject,  as  if  it  gave  him  actual  re- 
lief, moralised  over  the  sandy  foundations  of 
mortal  prosperity,  the  advance  of  age  put- 
ting out  the  lights  of  youth,  and  cancelling 
the  rapture  of  the  lover,  and  the  certainty 
of  death.  This  is  a  favourite  path  of  contem- 
plation with  him,  and  he  pursues  it  with  a 


Dunbar.  9  7 

gloomy  sedateness  of  acquiescence,  which  is 
more  affecting  than  if  he  raved  and  foamed 
against  the  inevitable.  But  he  has  the  mo- 
bility of  the  poetic  nature,  and  the  sad 
ground- tone  is  often  drowned  in  the  ecstasy 
of  lighter  notes.  All  at  once  the  "  bare 
ruined  choirs "  are  covered  with  the  glad 
light-green  of  spring.  His  genius  combined 
the  excellencies  of  many  masters.  His 
"Golden  Targe"  and  "The  Thistle  and  the 
Rose"  are  allegorical  poems,  full  of  colour, 
fancy,  and  music.  His  "Two  Married  Wo- 
men and  the  Widow "  has  a  good  deal  of 
Chaucer's  slyness  and  humour.  "  The  Dance 
of  the  Deadly  Sins,"  with  its  fiery  bursts  of 
imaginative  energy,  its  pictures  finished  at  a 
stroke,  is  a  prophecy  of  Spenser  and  Collins, 
and  as  fine  as  anything  they  have  accom- 
plished ;  while  his  "  Flytings "  are  torrents 
of  the  coarsest  vituperation.  And  there  are 
whole  flights  of  occasional  poems,  many  of 
them  sombre-coloured  enough,  with  an  ever- 
recurring  mournful  refrain,  others  satirical, 
but  all  flung  off,  one  can  see,  at  a  sitting ;  in 
the  few  verses  the  mood  is  exhausted,  and 
while  the  result  remains,  the  cause  is  for- 
gotten ev^en  by  himself.  Several  of  these 
short  poems  are  almost  perfect  in  feeling 
and  execution.  The  melancholy  ones  are 
7 


gS  Dtmhar. 

full  of  a  serious  grace,  while  in  the  satirical 
a  laughing  devil  of  glee  and  malice  sparkles 
in  every  line.  Some  of  these  latter  are  dan- 
gerous to  touch  as  a  thistle  —  all  bristling 
and  angry  with  the  spikes  of  satiric  scorn. 

In  his  allegorical  poems  —  "The  Golden 
Targe,"  "The  Merle  and  the  Nightingale," 
"  The  Thistle  and  the  Rose  "  —  Dunbar's 
fancy  has  full  scope.  As  allegories,  they 
are,  perhaps,  not  worth  much ;  at  all  events, 
modern  readers  do  not  care  for  the  adven- 
tures of  "  Quaking  Dread  and  Humble 
Obedience  "  ;  nor  are  they  affected  by  des- 
criptions of  Beauty,  attended  by  her  fair 
damsels,  Fair  Having,  Fine  Portraiture, 
Pleasance,  and  Lusty  Cheer.  The  whole 
conduct  and  machinery  of  such  things  are 
too  artificial  and  stilted  for  modern  tastes. 
Stately  masques  are  no  longer  performed  in 
earls'  mansions ;  and  when  a  sovereign 
enters  a  city,  a  fair  lady,  with  wings,  repre- 
senting Loyalty,  does  not  burst  out  of  a 
pasteboard  cloud  and  recite  a  poetical  ad- 
flress  to  Majesty.  Li  our  theatres  the  pan- 
tomime, which  was  originally  an  adumbration 
of  human  life,  has  become  degraded.  Sym- 
bolism has  departed  from  the  boards,  and 
burlesque  reigns  in  its  stead.  The  Lord 
Mayor's  Show,  the  last  remnant  of   the  an- 


Dunbar.  gp 

tique  spectacular  taste,  does  not  move  us 
now  ;  it  is  held  a  public  nuisance  ;  it  pro- 
vokes the  rude  "chaff"  of  the  streets.  Our 
very  mobs  have  become  critical.  Gog  and 
Magog  are  dethroned.  The  knight  feels  the 
satiric  comments  through  his  armour.  The 
very  steeds  are  uneasy,  as  if  ashamed.  But 
in  Dunbar  the  allegorical  machinery  is  saved 
from  contempt  by  colour,  poetry,  and  music. 
Quick  surprises  of  beauty,  and  a  rapid 
succession  of  pictures,  keep  the  attention 
awake.     Now  it  is  — 

"  May,  of  mirthful  monethis  queen, 
Betwixt  April  and  June,  her  sisters  sheen, 
Within  the  garden  walking  up  and  down." 

Now  — 

"  The  god  of  windis,  Eolus, 
With  variand  look,  richt  like  a  lord  unstable." 

Now  the  nightingale  — 

"  Never  sweeter  noise  was  heard  with  livin'  man, 
Nor  made  this  merry,  gentle  nightingale; 
Her  sound  went  with  the  river  as  it  ran 
Out  throw  the  fresh  and  flourished  lusty  vale." 

And  now  a  spring  morning  — 

"  Ere  Phoel^us  was  in  purple  cape  revest, 
Up  raise  the  lark,  the  heaven's  minstrel  fine 
In  May,  in  till  a  morrow  mirthfullest. 


loo  Dunbar. 

"  Full  angel-like  thir  birdis  sang  their  hours 
Within  their  curtains  green,  in  to  their  hours 
Apparelled  white  and  red  with  bloomes  sweet; 
Enamelled  was  the  field  with  all  colours, 
The  pearly  droppis  shook  in  silver  shours ; 
While  all  in  balm  did  branch  and  leavis  fleet. 
To  part  fra  Phoebus  did  Aurora  greet. 
Her  crystal  tears  I  saw  hing  on  the  flours, 
Whilk  he  for  love  all  drank  up  with  his  heat. 

"  For  mirth  of  May,  with  skippis  and  with  hops, 
The  birdis  sang  upon  the  tender  crops. 
With  curious  notes,  as  Venus'  chapel  clerks ; 
The  roses  young,  new  spreading  of  their  knops, 
Were  powderit  bricht  with  heavenly  beriall  drops, 
Through  beams  red,  burning  as  ruby  sparks  ; 
The  skies  rang  for  shouting  of  the  larks. 
The  purple  heaven  once  scal't  in  silver  slops, 
Oure  gilt  the  trees,  branches,  leaves,  and  barks." 

The  finest  of  Dtnibar's  poems  in  this  style 
is  "  The  Thistle  and  the  Rose."  It  \yas  writ- 
ten in  celebration  of  the  marriage  of  James 
with  the  Princess  Margaret  of  Flngland,  and 
the  royal  pair  are  happily  represented  as  the 
national  emblems.  It,  of  course,  opens  with 
a  description  of  a  spring  morning.  Dame 
Nature  resolves  that  every  bird,  beast,  and 
flower  should  compeer  before  her  highness ; 
the  roe  is  commanded  to  summon  the  ani- 
mals, the  restless  swallow  the  birds,  and  the 
"conjured"  yarrow  the  herbs  and  flowers. 
In  the  twinkling  of  an  eye  they  stand  before 
the   queen.      The    lion   and   the    eagle  are 


Diiiihar.  loi 

crowned,  and  are  instructed  to  be  humble 
and  just,  and  to  exercise  their  powers  merci- 
fully :  — 

"  Then  callit  she  all  flouris  that  grew  in  field, 
Discerning  all  their  seasons  and  effeirs, 
Upon  the  awful  thistle  she  beheld 

And  saw  him  keepit  with  a  bush  of  spears : 
Consid'ring  him  so  able  for  the  weirs, 
A  radius  crown  of  rubies  she  him  gave, 
And  said,  '  In  field,  go  forth  and  fend  the  lave.' " 

The  rose,  also,  is  crowned,  and  the  poet  gives 
utterance  to  the  universal  joy  on  occasion 
of  the  marriage  —  type  of  peace  between 
two  kingdoms.  Listen  to  the  rich  music  of 
according  voices  :  — 

"  Then  all  the  birds  sang  with  voice  on  hicht, 

Whose  mirthful  soun'  was  marvellous  to  hear ; 

The  mavis  sang,  Hail  Rose,  most  rich  and  richt, 
That  does  up  flourish  under  Phoebus'  sphere. 
Hail,  plant  of  youth,  hail  Princess,  dochter  dear ; 

Hail  blosom  breaking  out  of  the  bluid  royal. 

Whose  precious  virtue  is  imperial. 

"  The  merle  she  sang,  Hail,  Rose  of  most  delight, 
Hail,  of  all  floris  queen  an'  sovereign  ! 
The  lark  she  sang.  Hail,  Rose  both  red  and  white  ; 
Most  pleasant  flower,  of  michty  colours  twane  : 
The  nichtingale  sang.  Hail,  Nature's  suffragane. 
In  beauty,  nurture,  and  every  nobleness, 
In  rich  array,  renow-n,  and  gentleness. 

"  The  common  voice  up  raise  of  birdes  small, 

Upon  this  wise,  Oh,  blessit  be  the  hour 

That  thou  was  chosen  to  be  our  principal ! 


102  Dunbar. 

\Vekome  to  be  our  Princess  of  honour, 
Our  pearl,  our  pleasance,  and  our  paramour, 

Our  peace,  our  play,  our  plain  felicity  ; 

Christ  thee  comfort  from  all  adversity  " 

But  beautiful  as  these  poems  are,  it  is  as  a 
satirist  that  Dunbar  has  performed  his  great- 
est feats.  He  was  by  nature  "  dowered  with 
the  scorn  of  scorn,"  and  its  edge  was  whetted 
by  hfe-long  disappointment.  Like  Spenser, 
he  knew  — 

"  What  Hell  it  is  in  suing  long  to  bide." 

And  even  in  poems  where  the  mood  is 
melancholy,  where  the  burden  is  the  short- 
ness of  life  and  the  unpermanence  of  felicity, 
his  satiric  rage  breaks  out  in  single  lines  of 
fire.  And  although  his  satire  is  often  almost 
inconceivably  coarse,  the  prompting  instinct 
is  healthy  at  bottom.  He  hates  Vice,  al- 
though his  hand  is  too  often  in  the  kennel 
to  pelt  her  withal.  He  lays  his  grasp  on  the 
bridle-rein  of  the  sleek  prelate,  and  upbraids 
him  with  his  secret  sins  in  language  unsuited 
to  modern  ears.  His  greater  satires  have  a 
wild  sheen  of  imagination  about  them.  They 
are  far  from  being  cold,  moral  homilies.  His 
wrath  or  his  contempt  breaks  through  the 
bounds  of  time  and  space,  and  brings  the 
spiritual  world  on  the  stage.     He  wishes  to 


Dunbar.  1 03 

rebuke  the  citizens  of  Edinburgh  for  their 
habits  of  profane  swearing,  and  the  result  is 
a  poem,  which  probably  gave  Coleridge  the 
hint  of  his  "  Devil's  Walk."  Dunbar's  satire 
is  entitled  the  "  Devil's  Inquest."  He  repre- 
sents the  Fiend  passing  up  through  the 
market,  and  chuckling  as  he  listens  to  the 
strange  oaths  of  cobbler,  maltman,  tailor, 
courtier,  and  minstrel.  He  comments  on 
Avhat  he  hears  and  sees  with  great  pleasantry 
and  satisfaction.  Here  is  the  conclusion  of 
the  piece  :  — 

"  Ane  thief  said,  God  that  ever  I  chaip, 
Nor  ane  stariv  widdy  gar  me  gaip, 

But  I  in  hell  for  geir  wald  be. 
The  Devil  said,  '  Welcome  in  a  raip  : 

Renounce  thy  God,  and  cum  to  me.' 

"  The  fishwives  flet  and  swore  with  granes, 
And  to  the  Fiend  saul  flesh  and  banes  ; 

They  gave  them,  with  ane  shout  on  hie. 
The  Devil  said,  '  Welcome  all  at  anes ; 

Renounce  your  God,  and  cum  to  me.' 

"  The  rest  of  craftis  great  aiths  swair, 
Their  wark.  and  craft  had  nae  compair, 

Ilk  ane  unto  their  qualitie. 
The  Devil  said  then,  withouten  mair, 

'  Renounce  your  God,  and  cum  to  me.'  " 

But  the  greatest  of  Dunbar's  satires  —  in 
fact,  the  greatest  of  all  his  poems  —  is  that 
entided  "  The  Dance  of  the  Seven  Deadly 


I04  Dunbar. 

Sins."  It  is  short,  but  within  its  compass 
most  swift,  vivid,  and  weird.  The  pictures 
rise  on  the  reader's  eye,  and  fade  at  once. 
It  is  a  singular  compound  of  farce  and  earn- 
est. It  is  Spenser  and  Hogarth  combined 
—  the  wildest  grotesquerie  wrought  on  a 
background  of  penal  flame.  The  poet  con- 
ceives himself  in  a  dream,  on  the  evening 
preceding  Lent,  and  in  his  vision  he  heard 
Mahoun  command  that  the  wretched  who 
"had  ne'er  been  shriven"  should  dance  be- 
fore him.  Immediately  a  hideous  rout  pre- 
sent themselves  ;  "  holy  harlots  "  appear  in 
their  finery,  and  never  a  smile  wrinkles  the 
faces  of  the  onlookers  ;  but  when  a  string  of 
"priests  with  their  shaven  necks"  come  in, 
the  arches  of  the  unnameable  place  shakes 
with  the  laughter  of  all  the  fiends.  Then 
"  The  Seven  Deadly  Sins "  begin  to  leap  at 
once : — 

"  And  first  of  all  the  dance  was  Pride, 
With  hair  wyld  ijack  and  Ijonnet  on  side." 

He,  with  all  his  train,  came  skipping  through 
the  fire. 

"  Then  Ire  came  in  with  sturt  and  strife  ; 
Mis  hand  was  aye  upon  his  knife ;  " 

and  with  him  came  armed  boasters  and 
braggarts,  smiting  each   other   with   swords. 


Dunbar.  1 05 

jagging  each  other  with  knives.  Then 
Envy,  trembhng  with  secret  hatred,  accom- 
panied by  his  court  of  flatterers,  backbiters, 
caUunniators  and  all  the  human  serpentry 
that  lurk  in  the  palaces  of  kings.  Then  came 
Covetousness,  with  his  hoarders  and  misers, 
and  these  the  fiends  gave  to  drink  of  newly- 
molten  gold. 

"  Syne  Swearness,  at  the  second  bidding, 
Came  like  a  sow  out  of  a  midding  :" 

and  with  him  danced  a  sleepy  crew,  and  Be- 
lial lashed  them  with  a  bridle-rein,  and  the 
fiends  gave  them  a  turn  in  the  fire  to  make 
them  nimbler.  Then  came  Lechery,  led  by 
Idleness,  with  a  host  of  evil  companions, 
"  full  strange  of  countenance,  like  torches 
burning  bright."  Then  came  Gluttony,  so 
unwieldy  that  he  could  hardly  move  :  — 

"  Him  followed  mony  foul  drunkart 
With  can  and  callop,  cup  and  quart, 
In  surfeit  and  excess." 

"  Drink,  aye  they  cried,"  with  their  parched 
lips;  and  the  fiends  gave  them  hot  lead  to 
lap.  Minstrels,  it  appears,  are  not  to  be 
found  in  that  dismal  place  :  — 

"  Nae  minstrels  played  to  them  but  doubt, 
P'or  gleemen  there  were  balden  out 

By  day  and  eik  by  nicht : 
Except  a  minstrel  that  slew  a  man, 
So  to  his  heritage  he  wan, 

And  entered  by  brieve  of  richt." 


io6  Dunbar. 

And  to  the  music  of  the  soHtary  poet  in 
hell,  the  strange  shapes  pass.  The  con- 
clusion of  this  singular  poem  is  entirely  far- 
cical. The  devil  is  resolved  to  make  high 
holiday  : 

"Then  cried  Mahoun  for  a  Hielaii  I'adyane, 
Syne  ran  a  fiend  to  fetch  MaUfadyane, 

Far  north-wast  in  a  neuck  ; 
15e  he  the  coronach  had  done  shout, 
Ersche  men  so  gatherit  huii  about, 

In  hell  great  room  they  took. 
Thae  tarmigants,  with  tag  and  tatter, 
Full  loud  in  Ersche  begoud  to  clatter, 

And  roup  like  raven  and  rook. 
The  Devil  sae  deaved  was  with  their  yell, 
That  in  the  deepest  pot  of  hell 

He  smorit  them  with  smook." 

There  is  one  other  poem  of  Dunbar's 
which  may  be  quoted  as  a  contrast  to  what 
has  been  already  given.  It  is  remarkable  as 
being  the  only  one  in  which  he  assumes  the 
character  of  a  lover.  The  style  of  thought 
is  quite  modern  ;  bereave  it  of  its  uncouth 
orthography,  and  it  might  have  been  written 
to-day.  It  is  turned  with  much  skill  and 
grace.  The  constitutional  melancholy  of  the 
man  comes  out  in  it ;  as,  indeed,  it  always 
does  when  he  finds  a  serious  topic.  It  pos- 
sesses more  tenderness  and  sentiment  than 
is  his  usual.  It  is  the  night-flower  among  his 
poems,  breathing  a   mournful  fragrance  :  — 


Dunbar.  107 

"  Sweit  rose  of  veitew  and  of  gentilnes, 
Delytsum  lyllie  of  everie  lustynes, 
Richest  in  bontie,  and  in  beutie  cleir, 
And  every  vertew  that  to  hevin  is  dear, 
Except  onlie  that  ye  ar  mercyles, 

"  Into  your  garthe  this  day  I  did  persew: 
Thair  saw  I  flowris  that  fresche  wer  of  dew, 
Baith  quhyte  and  reid  most  Uistye  wer  to  seyne, 
And  halsum  herbis  upone  stalkis  grene  : 
Yet  leif  nor  flour  fynd  could  I  nane  of  rew. 

"  I  doute  that  March,  with  his  cauld  blastis  keyne, 
Hes  slane  this  gentill  herbe.  that  I  of  mene ; 
Quhois  pitewous  deithe  dois  to  my  hart  sic  pane, 
That  I  wald  mak  to  plant  his  rute  agane. 
So  comfortand  his  levis  unto  me  bene." 

The  extracts  already  given  will  enable  the 
reader  to  form  some  idea  of  the  old  poet's 
general  power  —  his  music,  his  picturesque 
faculty,  his  colour,  his  satire.  Yet  it  is  diffi- 
cult from  what  he  has  left  to  form  any  very 
definite  image  of  the  man.  Although  his 
poems  are  for  the  most  part  occasional, 
founded  upon  actual  circumstances,  or  writ- 
ten to  relieve  him  from  the  over-pressure  of 
angry  or  melancholy  moods,  and  although 
the  writer  is  by  no  means  shy  or  indisposed 
to  speak  of  himself,  his  personality  is  not 
made  clear  to  us.  There  is  great  gap  of  time 
between  him  and  the  modern  reader ;  and 
the  mixture  of  gold  and  clay  in  the  products 
of  his  genius,  the  discrepancy  of  elements, 


io8  Dunbar. 

beauty  and  coarseness,  Apollo's  cheek,  and 
the  satyr's  shaggy  limbs,  are  explainable 
partly  from  a  want  of  harmony  and  com- 
pleteness in  himself,  and  partly  from  the 
pressure  of  the  half-barbaric  time.  His 
rudeness  offends,  his  narrowness  astonishes. 
But  then  we  must  remember  that  our  ad- 
vantages in  these  respects  do  not  necessarily 
arise  from  our  being  of  a  purer  and  nobler 
essence.  We  have  these  things  by  inherit- 
ance ;  they  have  been  transmitted  to  us 
along  a  line  of  ancestors.  Five  centuries 
share  with  us  the  merit  of  the  result.  Mod- 
ern delicacy  of  taste  and  intellectual  purity 
—  although  we  hold  them  m  possession,  and 
may  add  to  their  sheen  before  we  hand  them 
on  to  our  children  — are  no  more  to  be  placed 
to  our  personal  credits  than  Dryden's  satire, 
Pope's  epigram,  Marlborough's  batdes, 
Burke's  speeches,  and  the  victories  of  Traf- 
algar and  Waterloo.  Intellectual  delicacy 
has  grown  like  our  political  constitution. 
The  English  duke  is  not  the  creator  of  his 
own  wealth,  although  in  his  keeping  it 
makes  the  earth  around  him  a  garden,  and 
the  walls  of  his  house  bright  with  pictures. 
But  our  inability  to  conceive  satisfactorily 
of  Dunbar  does  not  arise  from  this  alone. 
We  have  his  works,  but  then  they  are  not 


Dunbar.  109 

supplemented  by  personal  anecdote  and  let- 
ters, and  the  reminiscences  of  contempo- 
raries. Burns,  for  instance,  —  if  limited  to 
his  works  for  our  knowledge  of  him,  —  would 
be  a  puzzling  phenomenon.  He  was  in  his 
poems  quite  as  spoken  as  Dunbar,  but 
then  they  describe  so  wide  an  area,  they 
appear  so  contradictory,  they  seem  often  to 
lead  in  opposite  directions.  It  is,  to  a  large 
extent,  through  his  letters  that  Burns  is 
known,  through  his  short,  careless,  pithy 
sayings,  which  imbedded  themselves  in  the 
memories  of  his  hearers,  from  the  recol- 
lections of  his  contemporaries  and  their 
expressed  judgments,  and  the  multiform 
reverberations  of  fame  lingering  around 
such  a  man  —  these  fill  up  interstices  be- 
tween works,  bring  apparent  opposition 
into  intimate  relationship,  and  make  whole- 
ness out  of  confusion.  Not  on  the  stage 
alone,  in  the  world  also,  a  man's  real  charac- 
ter comes  out  best  in  his  asides.  With 
Dunbar  there  is  nothing  of  this.  He  is  a 
name,  and  little  more.  He  exists  in  a  region 
to  which  rumour  and  conjecture  have  never 
penetrated.  He  was  long  neglected  by  his 
countrymen,  and  was  brought  to  light  as  if 
by  accident.  He  is  the  Pompeii  of  British 
poetry.     We  have  his  works,   but   they  are 


no  Dunbar. 

like  the  circumvallations  of  a  Roman  camp 
on  the  Scottish  hillside.  We  see  Unes 
stretching  hither  and  thither,  but  we  cannot 
make  out  the  plan,  or  divine  what  purposes 
were  served.  A\'e  only  know  that  every 
crumpled  rampart  was  once  a  defence  ;  that 
every  half-obliterated  fosse  once  swarmed 
with  men ;  that  it  was  once  a  station  and 
abiding-place  of  human  life,  although  for 
centuries  now  remitted  to  silence  and  blank 
summer  sunshine. 


IGHTLY  or  wrongly,  during  the 
last  twenty  or  thirty  years  a  strong 
feeling  has  grown  up  in  the  public 
mind  against  the  principle,  and  a 
still  stronger  feeling  against  the  practice, 
of  capital  punishments.  Many  people  who 
will  admit  that  the  execution  of  the  mur- 
derer may  be,  abstractly  considered,  just 
enough,  sincerely  doubt  whether  such  execu- 
tion be  expedient,  and  are  in  their  own  minds 
perfectly  certain  that  it  cannot  fail  to  demor- 
alise the  spectators.  In  consequence  of  this, 
executions  have  become  rare  ;  and  it  is  quite 
clear  that  many  scoundrels,  well  worthy  of 
the  noose,  contrive  to  escape  it.  When,  on 
the  occasion  of  a  wretch  being  turned  off, 
the  spectators  are  few,  it  is  remarked  by  the 
newspapers  that  the  mob  is  beginning  to 
lose  its  proverbial  cruelty,  and  to  be  stirred 
by  humane  pulses  ;  when  they  are  numerous, 
and  especially  when  girls  and  women  form  a 


112      •  A  Lark's  F/ighL 

majority,  the  circumstance  is  noticed  and 
deplored.  It  is  plain  enough  that,  if  the 
newspaper  considered  such  an  exhibition 
beneficial,  it  would  not  lament  over  a  few 
thousand  eager  witnesses  :  if  the  sermon  be 
edifying,  you  cannot  have  too  large  a  con- 
gregation ;  if  you  teach  a  moral  lesson  in  a 
grand,  impressive  way,  it  is  difficult  to  see 
how  you  can  have  too  many  pupils.  Of 
course,  neither  the  justice  nor  the  expedi- 
ency of  capital  punishments  flills  to  be  dis- 
cussed here.  This,  however,  may  be  said, 
that  the  popular  feeling  against  them  may 
not  be  so  admirable  a  proof  of  enlighten- 
ment as  many  believe.  It  is  true  that  the 
spectacle  is  painful,  horrible  ;  but  in  pain 
and  horror  there  is  often  hidden  a  certain 
salutariness,  and  the  repulsion  of  which  we 
are  conscious  is  as  likely  to  arise  from  debil- 
itation of  public  nerve,  as  from  a  higher 
reach  of  public  feeling.  To  my  own  think- 
ing, it  is  out  of  this  pain  and  hatefulness 
that  an  execution  becomes  invested  with  an 
ideal  grandeur.  Tt  is  sheer  horror  to  all 
concerned  —  sheriffs,  halbertmen,  chaplain, 
spectators,  Jack  Ketch,  and  culprit ;  but  out 
of  all  this,  and  towering  behind  the  vulgar 
and  hideous  accessories  of  the  scaffold, 
gleams  the  majesty  of  implacable  law.    When 


A  Lark's  Flii^ht.  113 

every  other  fine  morning  a  dozen  cut-purses 
were  hanged  at  'I'yburn,  and  when  such 
sights  did  not  run  very  strongly  against  the 
popular  current,  the  spectacle  was  vulgar, 
and  could  be  of  use  only  to  the  possible  cut- 
purses  congregated  around  the  foot  of  the 
scaffold.  Now,  when  the  law  has  become  so 
far  merciful;  when  the  punishment  of  death 
is  reserved  for  the  murderer ;  when  he  can 
be  condemned  only  on  the  clearest  evi- 
dence ;  when,  as  the  days  draw  slowly  on 
to  doom,  the  frightful  event  impending  over 
one  stricken  wretch  throws  its  shadow  over 
the  heart  of  every  man,  woman,  and  child  in 
the  great  city ;  and  when  the  official  persons 
whose  duty  it  is  to  see  the  letter  of  the  law 
carried  out  perform  that  duty  at  the  expense 
of  personal  pain,  —  a  public  execution  is  not 
vulgar,  it  becomes  positively  sublime.  It  is 
dreadful,  of  course ;  but  its  dreadfulness 
melts  into  pure  awfulness.  The  attention 
is  taken  off  the  criminal,  and  is  lost  in  a 
sense  of  the  grandeur  of  justice  ;  and  the 
spectator  who  beholds  an  execution,  solely 
as  it  appears  to  the  eye,  without  recognition 
of  the  idea  which  towers  behind  it,  must  be 
a  very  unspiritual  and  unimaginative  specta- 
tor indeed. 

It  is  taken  for  granted  that  the  spectators 
8 


114  A  Lark's  Flight. 

of  public  executions  —  the  artisans  and  coun- 
try people  who  take  up  their  stations  over- 
night as  close  to  the  barriers  as  possible, 
and  the  wealthier  classes  who  occupy  hired 
windows  and  employ  opera-glasses  —  are 
merely  drawn  together  by  a  morbid  relish 
for  horrible  sights.  He  is  a  bold  man  who 
will  stand  forward  as  the  advocate  of  such 
persons  —  so  completely  is  the  popular  mind 
made  up  as  to  their  tastes  and  motives.  It 
is  not  disputed  that  the  large  body  of  the 
mob,  and  of  the  occupants  at  windows,  have 
been  drawn  together  by  an  appetite  for  ex- 
citement ;  but  it  is  quite  possible  that  many 
come  there  from  an  impulse  altogether  dif- 
ferent. Just  consider  the  nature  of  the  ex- 
pected sight,  —  a  man  in  tolerable  health 
probably,  in  possession  of  all  his  faculties, 
perfectly  able  to  realise  his  position,  con- 
scious that  for  him  this  world  and  the  next 
are  so  near  that  only  a  few  seconds  divide 
them  —  such  a  man  stands  in  the  seeing  of 
several  thousand  eyes.  He  is  so  peculiarly 
circumstanced,  so  utterly  lonely,  —  hearing 
the  tolling  of  his  own  death-bell,  yet  living, 
wearing  the  mourning  clothes  for  his  own 
funeral,  —  that  he  holds  the  multitude  to- 
gether by  a  shuddering  fascination.  The 
sight  is  a  peculiar  one,  you  must  admit,  and 


A  Lark's  Flight.  1 1 5 

every  peculiarity  has  its  attractions.  Your 
volcano  is  more  attractive  than  your  ordinary 
mountain.  Then  consider  the  unappeasable 
curiosity  as  to  death  which  haunts  every  hu- 
man being,  and  how  pathetic  that  curiosity 
is,  in  so  far  as  it  suggests  our  own  ignorance 
and  helplessness,  and  we  see  at  once  that 
people  may  flock  to  public  executions  for 
other  purposes  than  the  gratification  of  mor- 
bid tastes  :  that  they  would  pluck  if  they 
could  some  little  knowledge  of  what  death 
is ;  that  imaginatively  they  attempt  to  reach 
to  it,  to  touch  and  handle  it  through  an  ex- 
perience which  is  not  their  own.  It  is  some 
obscure  desire  of  this  kind,  a  movement  of 
curiosity  not  altogether  ignoble,  but  in  some 
degree  pathetic  ;  some  rude  attempt  of  the 
imagination  to  wrest  from  the  death  of  the 
criminal  information  as  to  the  great  secret  in 
which  each  is  profoundly  interested,  which 
draws  around  the  scaffold  people  from  the 
country  harvest- fields,  and  from  the  streets 
and  alleys  of  the  town.  Nothing  interests 
men  so  much  as  death.  Age  cannot  wither 
it,  nor  custom  stale  it.  '•'  A  greater  crowd 
would  come  to  see  me  hanged,"  Cromwell  is 
reported  to  have  said  when  the  populace 
came  forth  on  a  public  occasion.  The  Lord 
Protector  was    right   in   a  sense    of  which, 


ii6  A  Lark's  Flight. 

perhaps,  at  the  moment  he  was  not  aware. 
Death  is  greater  than  official  position.  When 
a  man  has  to  die,  he  may  safely  dispense  with 
stars  and  ribbands.  He  is  invested  with  a 
greater  dignity  than  is  held  in  the  gift  of 
kings.  A  greater  crowd  would  have  gathered 
to  see  Cromwell  hanged,  but  the  compliment 
would  have  been  paid  to  death  rather  than 
to  Cromwell.  Never  were  the  motions  of 
Charles  I.  so  scrutinised  as  when  he  stood 
for  a  few  moments  on  the  scaffold  that 
winter  morning  at  Whitehall.  King  Louis 
was  no  great  orator  usually,  but  when  on 
the  2d  January,  1793,  he  attempted  to  speak 
a  few  words  in  the  Place  De  la  Revolution, 
it  was  found  necessary  to  drown  his  voice 
in  a  harsh  roll  of  soldiers'  drums.  Not 
without  a  meaning  do  people  come  forth 
to  see  men  die.  We  stand  in  the  valley, 
they  on  the  hill-top,  and  on  their  faces 
strikes  the  light  of  the  other  world,  and 
from  some  sign  or  signal  of  theirs  we  at- 
tempt to  discover  or  extract  a  hint  of  what 
it  is  all  like. 

To  be  publicly  put  to  death,  for  what- 
ever reason,  must  ever  be  a  serious  matter. 
It  is  always  bitter,  but  there  are  degrees  in 
its  bitterness.  It  is  easy  to  die  like  Stephen 
with  an  opened  heaven  above  you,  crowded 


A  Lark's  Flight.  1 1  7 

with  angel  faces.  It  is  easy  to  die  like  Bal- 
inerino  witli  a  chivalrous  sigh  for  the  White 
Rose,  and  an  audible  "  God  bless  King 
James."  Such  men  die  for  a  cause  in  which 
they  glory,  and  are  supported  thereby ;  they 
are  conducted  to  the  portals  of  the  next 
world  by  the  angels,  Faith,  Pity,  Admiration. 
But  it  is  not  easy  to  die  in  expiation  of  a 
crime  like  murder,  which  engirdles  you  with 
trembling  and  horror  even  in  the  loneliest 
places,  which  cuts  you  off  from  the  sympa- 
thies of  your  kind,  which  reduces  the  uni- 
verse to  two  elements  —  a  sense  of  personal 
identity,  and  a  memory  of  guilt.  In  so  dying, 
there  must  be  inconceivable  bitterness ;  a 
man  can  have  no  other  support  than  what 
strength  he  may  pluck  from  despair,  or  from 
the  iron  with  which  nature  may  have  origi- 
nally braced  heart  and  nerve.  Yet,  taken  as 
a  whole,  criminals  on  the  scaffold  comport 
themselves  creditably.  They  look  Death  in 
the  face  when  he  wears  his  crudest  aspect, 
and  if  they  flinch  somewhat,  they  can  at 
least  bear  to  look.  I  believe  that,  for  the 
criminal,  execution  within  the  prison  walls, 
with  no  witnesses  save  some  half-dozen 
official  persons,  would  be  infinitely  more 
terrible  than  execution  in  the  presence  of  a 
curious,  glaring  mob.     The  daylight  and  the 


ii8  A  Lark's  Flight. 

publicity  are  alien  elements,  which  wean  the 
man  a  little  from  himself.  He  steadies  his 
dizzy  brain  on  the  crowd  beneath  and 
around  him.  He  has  his  last  part  to  play, 
and  his  manhood  rallies  to  play  it  well.  Nay, 
so  subtly  is  vanity  intertwined  with  our 
motives,  the  noblest  and  the  most  ignoble, 
that  I  can  fancy  a  poor  wretch  with  the 
noose  dangling  at  his  ear,  and  with  barely 
five  minutes  to  live,  soothed  somewhat 
with  the  idea  that  his  firmness  and  com- 
posure will  earn  him  the  approbation,  per- 
haps the  pity,  of  the  spectators.  He  would 
take  with  him,  if  he  could,  the  good  opinion 
of  his  fellows.  This  composure  of  criminals 
puzzles  one.  Have  they  looked  at  death  so 
long  and  closely,  that  familiarity  has  robbed 
it  of  terror?  Has  life  treated  them  so 
harshly,  that  they  are  tolerably  well  pleased 
to  be  quit  of  it  on  any  terms?  Or  is  the 
whole  thing  mere  blind  stupor  and  delirium, 
in  which  thought  is  paralysed,  and  the  man 
an  automaton?  Speculation  is  useless.  The 
fact  remains  that  criminals  for  the  most  part 
die  well  and  bravely.  It  is  said  that  the 
championship  of  England  was  to  be  decided 
at  some  little  distance  from  London  on  the 
morning  of  the  day  on  which  Thurtell  was 
executed,  and   that,  when   he   came  out  on 


A   Lark's  Flight.  119 

the  scaffold,  he  inquired  privily  of  the  exe- 
cutioner if  the  result  had  yet  become  known. 
Jack  Ketch  was  not  aware,  and  Thurtell 
expressed  his  regret  that  the  ceremony  in 
which  he  was  chief  actor  should  take  place 
so  inconveniently  early  in  the  day.  Think 
of  a  poor  Thurtell  forced  to  take  his  long 
journey  an  hour,  perhaps,  before  the  arrival 
of  intelligence  so  important ! 

More  than  twenty  years  ago  I  saw  two  men 
executed,  and  the  impression  then  made  re- 
mains fresh  to  this  day.  For  this  there  were 
many  reasons.  The  deed  for  which  the  men 
suffered  created  an  immense  sensation. 
They  were  hanged  on  the  spot  where  the 
murder  was  committed  —  on  a  rising  ground, 
some  four  miles  north-east  of  the  city;  and 
as  an  attempt  at  rescue  was  apprehended, 
there  was  a  considerable  display  of  military 
force  on  the  occasion.  And  when,  in  the 
dead  silence  of  thousands,  the  criminals 
stood  beneath  the  halters,  an  incident  oc- 
curred, quite  natural  and  slight  in  itself,  but 
when  taken  in  connection  with  the  business 
then  proceeding,  so  unutterably  tragic,  so 
overwhelming  in  its  pathetic  suggestion  of 
contrast,  that  the  feeling  of  it  has  never  de- 
parted, and  never  will.  At  the  time,  too,  I 
speak  of,  I  was  very  young ;  the  world  was 


I20  A  Lark's   Flight. 

like  a  die  newly  cut,  whose  even'  impression 
is  fresh  and  vivid. 

While  the  railway  which  connects  two 
northern  capitals  was  being  built,  two 
brothers  from  Ireland,  named  Doolan,  were 
engaged  upon  it  in  the  capacity  of  navvies. 
For  some  fault  or  negligence,  one  of  the 
brothers  was  dismissed  by  the  overseer  —  a 
Mr.  Green  —  of  that  particular  portion  of  the 
line  on  which  they  were  employed.  The 
dismissed  brother  went  off  in  search  of  work, 
and  the  brother  who  remained  —  Dennis  was 
the  Christian  name  of  him  —  brooded  over 
this  supposed  wrong,  and  in  his  dull,  twi- 
lighted  brain  revolved  projects  of  vengeance. 
He  did  not  absolutely  mean  to  take  Green's 
life,  but  he  meant  to  thrash  him  within  an 
inch  of  it.  Dennis,  anxious  to  thrash  Green, 
but  not  quite  seeing  his  way  to  it,  opened 
his  mind  one  afternoon,  when  work  was 
over,  to  his  friends  —  fellow-Irishmen  and  nav- 
vies —  Messrs.  Redding  and  Hickie.  These 
took  up  Doolan's  wrong  as  their  own,  and 
that  evening,  by  the  dull  light  of  a  bothy 
fire,  they  held  a  rude  parliament,  discussing 
ways  and  means  of  revenge.  It  was  arranged 
that  Green  should  be  thrashed  —  the  amount 
of  thrashing  left  an  open  question,  to  be  de- 
cided, unhappily,  when    the    blood  was  up 


A  Lark's  Flight.  121 

and  the  cinder  of  rage  blown  into  a  flame 
Hickie's  spirit  was  found  not  to  be  a  mount- 
ing one,  and  it  was  arranged  that  the  active 
partners  in  the  game  should  be  Doolan  and 
Redding.  Doolan,  as  the  aggrieved  party, 
was  to  strike  the  first  blow,  and  Redding, 
as  the  aggrieved  party's  particular  friend, 
asked  and  obtained  permission  to  strike 
the  second.  The  main  conspirators,  with 
a  fine  regard  for  the  feelings  of  the  weaker 
Hickie,  allowed  him  to  provide  the  weapons 
of  assault,  —  so  that  by  some  slight  filament 
of  aid  he  might  connect  himself  with  the  good 
cause.  The  unambitious  Hickie  at  once  ap- 
plied himself  to  his  duty.  He  went  out,  and 
in  due  time  returned  with  two  sufficient  iron 
pokers.  The  weapons  were  examined,  ap- 
proved of,  and  carefully  laid  aside.  Doolan, 
Redding,  and  Hickie  ate  their  suppers,  and 
retired  to  their  several  couches  to  sleep, 
peacefully  enough  no  doubt.  About  the 
same  time,  too.  Green,  the  English  overseer, 
threw  down  his  weary  limbs,  and  entered 
on  his  last  sleep  —  little  dreaming  what  the 
morning  had  in  store  for  him. 

Uprose  the  sun,  and  uprose  Doolan  and 
Redding,  and  dressed,  and  thrust  each  his 
sufficient  iron  poker  up  the  sleeve  of  his 
blouse,  and  went  forth.     They  took  up  their 


122  A  Lark's  Flight. 

station  on  a  temporary  wooden  bridge 
which  spanned  the  Hne,  and  waited  there. 
Across  the  bridge,  as  was  expected,  did 
Green  uhimately  come.  He  gave  them  good 
morning ;  asked,  "  why  they  were  loafing 
about?"  received  no  very  pertinent  answer, 
perhaps  did  not  care  to  receive  one  ;  whis- 
ded  —  the  unsuspecting  man  !  —  thrust  his 
hands  into  his  breeches  pockets,  turned  his 
back  on  them,  and  leaned  over  the  railing 
of  the  bridge,  inspecting  the  progress  of  the 
works  beneath.  The  temptation  was  really 
too  great.  What  could  wild  Irish  flesh  and 
blood  do  ?  In  a  moment  out  from  the  sleeve 
of  Doolan's  blouse  came  the  hidden  poker, 
and  the  first  blow  was  struck,  bringing 
Green  to  the  ground.  The  friendly  Redding, 
who  had  bargained  for  the  second,  and  who, 
naturally  enough,  was  in  fear  of  being  cut 
out  altogether,  jumped  on  the  prostrate  man, 
and  fulfilled  his  share  of  the  bargain  with  a 
will.  It  was  Redding  it  was  supposed  who 
sped  the  unhappy  Green.  They  overdid 
their  work  —  like  young  authors  —  giving 
many  more  blows  than  were  sufficient,  and 
then  fled.  The  works,  of  course,  were  that 
morning  in  consternation.  Redding  and 
Hickie  were,  if  I  remember  rightly,  appre- 
hended in  the  course  of  the  day.     Doolan 


A  Lark's  Flight.  123 

got    off,    leaving    no    trace    of    his    where- 
abouts. 

These  particulars  were  all  learned  subse- 
quently. The  first  intimation  which  we 
schoolboys  received  of  anything  unusual 
having  occurred,  was  the  sight  of  a  detach- 
ment of  soldiers  with  fixed  bayonets,  trou- 
sers rolled  up  over  muddy  boots,  marching 
past  the  front  of  the  Cathedral  hurriedly 
home  to  barracks.  This  was  a  circumstance 
somewhat  unusual.  We  had,  of  course,  fre- 
quently seen  a  couple  of  soldiers  trudging 
along  with  sloped  muskets,  and  that  cruel 
glitter  of  steel  which  no  one  of  us  could 
look  upon  quite  unmoved ;  but  in  such 
cases,  the  deserter  walking  between  them  in 
his  shirt-sleeves,  his  pinioned  hands  covered 
from  public  gaze  by  the  loose  folds  of  liis 
great-coat,  explained  everything.  But  from 
the  hurried  march  of  these  mud- splashed 
men,  nothing  could  be  gathered,  and  we 
were  left  to  speculate  upon  its  meaning. 
Gradually,  however,  before  the  evening  fell, 
the  rumour  of  a  murder  having  been  com- 
mitted spread  through  the  city,  and  with 
that  I  instinctively  connected  the  apparition 
of  the  file  of  muddy  soldiers.  Next  day, 
murder  was  in  every  mouth.  My  school- 
fellows talked  of  it  to  the  detriment  of  their 


124  -^  Lark's  Flight. 

lessons ;  it  flavoured  the  tobacco  of  the  fus- 
tian artisan  as  he  smoked  to  work  after 
breakfast ;  it  walked  on  'Change  amongst 
the  merchants.  It  was  known  that  two  of 
the  persons  implicated  had  been  captured, 
but  that  the  other,  and  guiltiest,  was  still  at 
large  ;  and  in  a  few  days  out  on  every  piece 
of  boarding  and  blank  wall  came  the  "  Hue 
and  cry  "  —  describing  Doolan  like  a  photo- 
graph, to  the  colour  and  cut  of  his  whiskers, 
and  offering  ;^ioo  as  reward  for  his  appre- 
hension, or  for  such  information  as  would 
lead  to  his  apprehension  —  like  a  silent,  im- 
placable bloodhound  following  close  on  the 
track  of  the  murderer.  This  terrible  broad- 
sheet I  read,  was  certain  that  he  had  read  it 
also,  and  fancy  ran  riot  over  the  ghastly 
fact.  For  him  no  hope,  no  rest,  no  peace, 
no  touch  of  hands  gentler  than  the  hang- 
man's ;  all  the  world  is  after  him  like  a 
roaring  prairie  of  flame  !  I  thought  of 
Doolan,  weary,  foot-sore,  heart-sore,  enter- 
ing some  quiet  village  of  an  evening ;  and 
to  quench  his  thirst,  going  up  to  the  public 
well,  around  which  the  gossips  are  talking, 
and  hearing  that  they  were  talking  of  him  ; 
and  seeing  from  the  well  itself  it  glaring 
upon  him,  as  if  conscious  of  his  presence, 
with  a  hundred  eyes  of  vengeance.    I  thought 


A  Lark's  Flight.  125 

of  him  asleep  in  out-houses,  and  starting  up 
in  wild  dreams  of  the  policeman's  hand  upon 
his  shoulder  fifty  times  ere  morning.  He 
had  committed  the  crime  of  Cain,  and  the 
weird  of  Cain  he  had  to  endure.  But  yes- 
terday innocent,  how  unimportant;  to-day 
bloody-handed,  the  whole  world  is  talking  of 
him,  and  everything  he  touches,  the  very  bed 
he  sleeps  on,  steals  from  him  his  secret,  and 
is  eager  to  betray  ! 

Doolan  was  finally  captured  in  Liverpool, 
and  in  the  Spring  Assize  the  three  men  were 
brought  to  trial.  The  jury  found  them 
guilty,  but  recommended  Hickie  to  mercy 
on  account  of  some  supposed  weakness  of 
mind  on  his  part.  Sentence  was,  of  course, 
pronounced  with  the  usual  solemnities.  They 
were  set  apart  to  die  ;  and  when  snug  abed 
o'  nights  —  for  imagination  is  most  mightily 
moved  by  contrast  —  I  crept  into  their  deso- 
late hearts,  and  tasted  a  misery  Avhich  was 
not  my  own.  As  already  said,  Hickie  was 
recommended  to  mercy,  and  the  recommen- 
dation was  ultimately  in  the  proper  quarter 
given  effect  to. 

The  evening  before  the  execution  has 
arrived,  and  the  reader  has  now  to  imagine 
the  early  May  sunset  falling  pleasantly  on 
the  outskirts  of  the  city.     The   houses  look- 


126  A  Lark's  Flight. 

ing  out  upon  an  open  square  or  space,  have 
little  plots  of  garden -ground  in  their  fronts, 
in  which  mahogany-coloured  wall-flowers  and 
mealy  auriculas  are  growing.  The  side  of 
this  square,  along  which  the  City  Road 
stretches  northward,  is  occupied  by  a  blind- 
asylum,  a  brick  building,  the  bricks  painted 
red  and  picked  out  with  white,  after  the  tidy 
EngHsh  fashion,  and  a  high  white  cemetery 
wall,  over  which  peers  the  spire  of  the 
Gothic  Cathedral ;  and  beyond  that,  on  the 
other  side  of  the  ravine,  rising  out  of  the 
populous  city  of  the  dead,  a  stone  John 
Knox  looks  down  on  the  Cathedral,  a  Bible 
clutched  in  his  outstretched  and  menacing 
hand.  On  all  this  the  May  sunset  is  strik- 
ing, dressing  everything  in  its  warm,  pleas- 
ant pink,  lingering  in  the  tufts  of  foliage 
that  nestle  around  the  asylum,  and  dipping 
the  building  itself  one  half  in  light,  one 
half  in  tender  shade.  This  open  space  or 
square  is  an  excellent  place  for  the  games 
of  us  boys,  and  "  Prisoner's  Base  "  is  being 
carried  out  with  as  much  earnestness  as  the 
business  of  life  now  by  those  of  us  who  are 
left.  The  girls,  too,  have  their  games  of  a 
quiet  kind,  which  we  held  in  huge  scorn  and 
contempt.  In  two  files,  linked  arm-in-arm, 
they  alternately  dance  towards    each  other 


A   Lark's  F/ighf.  127 

and  then  retire,  singing  the  while,  in  their 
clear,  girlish  treble,  verses,  the  meaning  and 
pertinence  of  which  time  has  worn  away  — 

"The  Canipsie  Duke  s  a-iiding,  a-riding,  a-riding," 

being  the  oft-recurring  "  owercome,"  or  re- 
frain. All  this  is  going  on  in  the  pleasant 
sunset  light,  when  by  the  apparition  of 
certain  waggons  coming  up  from  the  city, 
piled  high  with  blocks  and  beams,  and 
guarded  by  a  dozen  dragoons,  on  whose 
brazen  helmets  the  sunset  danced,  every 
game  is  dismembered,  and  we  are  in  a  mo- 
ment a  mere  mixed  mob  of  boys  and  girls, 
flocking  around  to  stare  and  wonder.  Just 
at  this  place  something  went  w-rong  with 
one  of  the  waggon  wheels,  and  the  proces- 
sion came  to  a  stop.  A  crowd  collected, 
and  we  heard  some  of  the  grown-up  people 
say,  that  the  scaffold  was  being  carried  out 
for  the  ceremony  of  to-morrow.  Then,  more 
intensely  than  ever,  one  realised  the  condi- 
tion of  the  doomed  men.  We  were  at  our 
happy  games  in  the  sunset,  they  were  enter- 
ing on  their  last  night  on  earth.  After 
hammering  and  delay  the  wheel  was  put  to 
rights,  the  sunset  died  out,  waggons  and 
dragoons  got  into  motion  and  disappeared  ; 
and  all  the  night  through,  whether  awake  or 


128  A  Lark's  Flight. 

asleep,  I  saw  the  torches  burning,  and  heard 
the  hammers  cHnking,  and  witnessed  as 
clearly  as  if  I  had  been  an  onlooker,  the 
horrid  structure  rising,  till  it  stood  com- 
plete, with  a  huge  cross-beam  from  which 
two  empty  halters  hung,  in  the  early  morning 
light. 

Next  morning  the  whole  city  was  in  com- 
motion. Whether  the  authorities  were  ap- 
prehensive that  a  rescue  would  be  attempted, 
or  were  anxious  merely  to  strike  terror  into 
the  hundreds  of  wild  Irishry  engaged  on  the 
railway,  I  cannot  say  :  in  any  case,  there  was 
a  display  of  military  force  quite  unusual. 
The  carriage  in  which  the  criminals  —  Catho- 
lics both  —  and  their  attendant  priests  were 
seated,  was  guarded  by  soldiers  with  fixed 
bayonets ;  indeed,  the  whole  regiment  then 
lying  in  the  city  was  massed  in  front  and 
behind,  with  a  cold,  frightful  glitter  of  steel. 
Besides  the  foot  soldiers,  there  were  dra- 
goons, and  two  pieces  of  cannon  ;  a  whole 
little  army,  in  fact.  With  a  slenderer  force 
battles  have  been  won  which  have  made  a 
mark  in  history.  What  did  the  prisoners 
think  of  their  strange  importance,  and  of  the 
tramp  and  hurly-burly  all  around?  When 
the  procession  moved  out  of  the  city,  it 
seemed    to   draw  with   it  almost  the    entire 


A  Lark's  Flight. 


129 


population ;  and  when  once  the  country 
roads  were  reached,  the  crowds  spread  over 
the  fields  on  either  side,  ruthlessly  treading 
down  the  tender  wheat  braird.  I  got  a 
glimpse  of  the  doomed,  blanched  faces 
which  had  haunted  me  so  long,  at  the  turn 
of  the  road,  where,  for  the  first  time,  the 
black  cross-beam  with  its  empty  halters  first 
became  visible  to  them.  Both  turned  and 
regarded  it  witli  a  long,  steady  look ;  that 
done,  they  again  bent  their  heads  attentively 
to  the  words  of  the  clergyman.  I  suppose 
in  that  long,  eager,  fascinated  gaze  they 
practically  died  —  that  for  them  death  had  no 
additional  bitterness.  When  the  mound  was 
reached  on  which  the  scaffold  stood,  there 
was  immense  confusion.  Around  it  a  wide 
space  was  kept  clear  by  the  military ;  the 
cannon  were  placed  in  position ;  out  flashed 
the  swords  of  the  dragoons ;  beneath  and 
around  on  every  side  was  the  crowd.  Be- 
tween two  brass  helmets  I  could  see  the 
scaffold  clearly  enough,  and  when  in  a  little 
while  the  men,  bareheaded  and  with  their 
attendants,  appeared  upon  it,  the  surg- 
ing crowd  became  stiffened  with  fear  and 
awe.  And  now  it  was  that  the  incident  so 
simple,  so  natural,  so  much  in  the  ordinary 
course  of  things,  and  yet  so  frightful  in  its 
9 


130  A  Lark's  Flight. 

tragic  suggestions,  took  place.  Be  it  remem- 
bered that  the  season  was  early  May,  that  the 
day  was  fine,  that  the  wheat-fields  were  cloth- 
ing themselves  in  the  green  of  the  young 
crop,  and  that  around  the  scaffold,  standing 
on  a  sunny  mound,  a  wide  space  was  kept 
clear*  When  the  men  appeared  beneath  the 
beam,  each  under  his  proper  halter,  there  was 
a  dead  silence,  —  every  one  was  gazing  too 
intently  to  whisper  to  his  neighbour  even. 
Just  then,  out  of  the  grassy  space  at  the 
foot  of  the  scaffold,  in  the  dead  silence  aud- 
ible to  all,  a  lark  rose  from  the  side  of  its 
nest,  and  went  singing  upward  in  its  happy 
flight.  O  heaven  !  how  did  that  song  trans- 
late itself  into  dying  ears?  Did  it  bring, 
in  one  wild  burning  moment,  father  and 
mother,  and  poor  Irish  cabin,  and  prayers 
said  at  bed-time,  and  the  smell  of  turf  fires, 
and  innocent  sweethearting,  and  rising  and 
setting  suns?  Did  it  —  but  the  dragoon's 
horse  has  become  restive,  and  his  brass  hel- 
met bobs  up  and  down  and  blots  every- 
thing ;  and  there  is  a  sharp  sound,  and  I  feel 
the  great  crowd  heave  and  swing,  and  hear 
it  torn  by  a  sharp  shiver  of  pity,  and  the 
men  whom  I  saw  so  near  but  a  moment  ago 
are  at  immeasurable  distance,  and  have 
solved  the  great  enigma,  —  and  the  lark  has 


A  Lark's  Flight.  131 

not  yet  finished  his  flight :  you  can  see  and 
hear  him  yonder  in  the  fringe  of  a  white  May 
cloud. 

This  ghastly  lark's  flight,  when  the  cir- 
cumstances are  taken  in  consideration,  is,  I 
am  inclined  to  think,  more  terrible  than  any- 
thing of  the  same  kind  which  I  have  en- 
countered in  books.  The  artistic  uses  of 
contrast  as  background  and  accompaniment, 
are  well  known  to  nature  and  the  poets. 
Joy  is  continually  worked  on  sorrow,  sorrow 
on  joy;  riot  is  framed  in  peace,  peace  in 
riot.  (Lear  and  the  Fool  always  go  together. 
Trafalgar  is  being  fought  while  Napoleon  is 
sitting  on  horseback  watching  the  Austrian 
army  laying  down  its  arms  at  Ulm.  In  Hood's 
poem,  it  is  when  looking  on  the  released 
schoolboys  at  their  games  that  Eugene  Aram 
remembers  he  is  a  murderer.  And  these 
two  poor  Irish  labourers  could  not  die  with- 
out hearing  a  lark  singing  in  their  ears.  It 
is  nature's  fashion.  She  never  quite  goes 
along  with  us.  She  is  sombre  at  weddings, 
sunny  at  funerals,  and  she  frowns  on  ninety- 
nine  out  of  a  hundred  picnics. 

There  is  a  stronger  element  of  terror  in 
this  incident  of  the  lark  than  in  any  story 
of  a  similar  kind  I  can  remember. 

A  good  story  is  told  of  an  Irish  gentleman 


132  A  Lark's  Flight. 

—  still  known  in  London  society  —  who  in- 
herited the  family  estates  and  the  family 
banshee.  The  estates  he  lost  —  no  uncom- 
mon circumstance  in  the  history  of  Irish 
gentlemen,  —  but  the  banshee,  who  expected 
no  favours,  stuck  to  him  in  his  adversity,  and 
crossed  the  channel  with  him,  making  her- 
self known  only  on  occasions  of  death-beds 
and  sharp  family  misfortunes.  This  gentle- 
man had  an  ear,  and,  seated  one  night  at  the 
opera,  the  keen —  heard  once  or  twice  before 
on  memorable  occasions  —  thrilled  through 
the  din  of  the  orchestra  and  the  passion  of 
the  singers.  He  hurried  home,  of  course, 
found  his  immediate  family  well,  but  on  the 
morrow  a  telegram  arrived  with  the  an- 
nouncement of  a  brother's  death.  Surely  of 
all  superstitions  that  is  the  most  imposing 
which  makes  the  other  world  interested  in 
the  events  which  befall  our  mortal  lot.  For 
the  mere  pomp  and  pride  of  it,  your  ghost 
is  worth  a  dozen  retainers,  and  it  is  entirely 
inexpensive.  The  peculiarity  and  supernatu- 
ral worth  of  this  story  lies  in  the  idea  of 
the  old  wail  piercing  through  the  sweet  en- 
tanglement of  stringed  instruments  and  ex- 
tinguishing Grisi.  Modern  circumstances 
and  luxury  crack,  as  it  were,  and  reveal  for 
a  moment  misty  and  aboriginal  time  big  with 


A  Lark's  Flight  133 

portent.  There  is  a  ridiculous  Scotch  story 
in  which  one  gruesome  touch  lives.  A 
clergyman's  female  servant  was  seated  in 
the  kitchen  one  Saturday  night  reading  the 
Scriptures,  when  she  was  somewhat  startled 
by  hearing  at  the  door  the  tap  and  voice  of 
her  sweetheart.  Not  expecting  him,  and 
the  hour  being  somewhate  late,  she  opened 
it  in  astonishment,  and  was  still  more  aston- 
ished to  liear  him  on  entering  abuse  Scrip- 
ture-reading. He  behaved  altogether  in  an 
unprecedented  manner,  and  in  many  ways 
terrified  the  poor  girl.  Ultimately  he  knelt 
before  her,  and  laid  his  head  on  her  lap. 
You  can  fancy  her  consternation  when  glanc- 
ing down  she  discovered  that,  instead  of  hair, 
the  head  was  covered  with  the  7Hoss  of  the 
moor/and.  By  a  sacred  name  she  adjured 
him  to  tell  who  he  was,  and  in  a  moment 
the  figure  was  gone.  It  was  the  Fiend,  of 
course  —  diminished  sadly  since  Milton  saw 
him  bridge  chaos  —  fallen  from  worlds  to 
kitchen-wenches.  But  just  think  how  in  the 
story,  in  half-pity,  in  half-terror,  the  popular 
feeling  of  homelessness,  of  being  outcast,  of 
being  unsheltered  as  waste  and  desert  places, 
has  incarnated  itself  in  that  strange  covering 
of  the  head.  It  is  a  true  supernatural  touch. 
One  other  story  I  have  heard  in  the  misty 


T34  ^  Lark's  Flight. 

Hebrides :  A  Skye  gentleman  was  riding 
along  an  empty  moorland  road.  All  at  once, 
as  if  it  had  sprung  from  the  ground,  the 
empty  road  was  crowded  by  a  funeral  pro- 
cession. Instinctively  he  drew  his  horse  to 
a  side  to  let  it  pass,  which  it  did  without 
sound  of  voice,  without  tread  of  foot.  Then 
he  knew  it  was  an  apparition.  Staring  on 
it,  he  knew  every  person  who  either  bore 
the  corpse  or  walked  behind  as  mourners. 
There  were  the  neighbouring  proprietors  at 
whose  houses  he  dined,  there  were  the  mem- 
bers of  his  own  kirk-session,  there  were  the 
men  to  whom  he  was  wont  to  give  good- 
morning  when  he  met  them  on  the  road  or 
at  market.  Unable  to  discover  his  own  im- 
age in  the  throng,  he  was  inwardly  marvel- 
ling whose  funeral  it  could  be,  when  the 
troop  of  spectres  vanished,  and  the  road 
was  empty  as  before.  Then,  remembering 
that  the  coffin  had  an  invisible  occupant,  he 
cried  out,  "  It  is  my  funeral  !  "  and,  with  all 
his  strength  taken  out  of  him,  rode  home  to 
die.  All  these  stories  have  their  own  touches 
of  terror  ;  yet  I  am  inclined  to  think  that 
my  lark  rising  from  the  scaffold  foot,  and 
singing  to  two  such  auditors,  is  more  terrible 
than  any  one  of  them. 


aSJ3?^VER  the  dial-face  of  the  year,  on 
which  the  hours  are  months,  the 
apex  resting  in  sunshine,  the 
base  in  withered  leaves  and 
snows,  the  finger  of  time  does  not  travel 
with  the  same  rapidity.  Slowly  it  creeps 
up  from  snow  to  sunshine ;  when  it  has 
gained  the  summit  it  seems  almost  to  rest 
for  a  little ;  rapidly  it  rushes  down  from 
sunshine  to  the  snow.  Judging  from  my 
own  feelings,  the  distance  from  January  to 
June  is  greater  than  from  June  to  January 
—  the  period  from  Christmas  to  Midsummer 
seems  longer  than  the  period  from  Mid- 
summer to  Christmas.  This  feeling  arises, 
I  should  fancy,  from  the  preponderance  of 
/I'g/it  on  that  half  of  the  dial  on  which  the 
finger  seems  to  be  travelling  upwards,  com- 
pared with  the  half  on  which  it  seems  to  be 
travelling  downwards.  This  light  to  the 
eye,  the    mind  translates  into  time.      Sum- 


136  Christmas. 

mer  days  are  long,  often  wearisomely  so. 
The  long-lighted  days  are  bracketed  to- 
gether by  a  little  bar  of  twilight,  in  which 
but  a  star  or  two  find  time  to  twinkle. 
Usually  one  has  less  occupation  in  summer 
than  in  winter,  and  the  surplusage  of  sum- 
mer light,  a  stage  too  large  for  the  play, 
wearies,  oppresses,  sometimes  appalls.  From 
the  sense  of  time  we  can  only  shelter  our- 
selves by  occupation  ;  and  when  occupation 
ceases  while  yet  some  three  or  four  hours  of 
light  remain,  the  burden  falls  down,  and  is 
often  greater  than  we  can  bear.  Personally, 
I  have  a  certain  morbid  fear  of  those  endless 
summer  twilights.  A  space  of  light  stretch- 
ing from  half-past  2  a.m.  to  i  i  p.m.  affects 
me  with  a  sense  of  infinity,  of  horrid  same- 
ness, just  as  the  sea  or  the  desert  would  do. 
I  feel  that  for  too  long  a  period  I  am  under 
the  eye  of  the  taskmaster.  Twilight  is  al- 
ways in  itself,  or  at  least  in  its  suggestions, 
melancholy ;  and  these  midsummer  twilights 
are  so  long,  they  pass  through  such  series 
of  lovely  change,  they  are  throughout  so 
mournfully  beautiful,  that  in  the  brain  they 
beget  strange  thoughts,  and  in  the  heart 
strange  feelings.  We  see  too  much  of  the 
sky,  and  the  long,  lovely,  pathetic,  lingering 
evening  light,  with  its  suggestions  of  etern- 


Christmas.  137 

ity  and  death,  which  one  cannot  for  the  soul 
of  one  put  into  words,  is  somewhat  too  much 
for  the  comfort  of  a  sensitive  human  mortal. 
The  day  dies,  and  makes  no  apology  for 
being  such  an  unconscionable  time  in  dying ; 
and  all  the  while  it  colours  our  thoughts 
with  its  own  solemnity.  There  is  no  relief 
from  this  kind  of  thing  at  midsummer.  You 
cannot  close  your  shutters  and  light  your 
candles ;  that  in  the  tone  of  mind  which  cir- 
cumstances superinduce  would  be  brutality. 
You  cannot  take  Pickwick  to  the  window 
and  read  it  by  the  dying  light ;  that  is  prof- 
anation. If  you  have  a  friend  with  you, 
you  can't  talk ;  the  hour  makes  you  silent. 
You  are  driven  in  on  your  self-consciousness. 
The  long  light  wearies  the  eye,  a  sense  of 
time  disturbs  and  saddens  the  spirit ;  and 
that  is  the  reason,  I  think,  -that  one  half  of 
the  year  seems  so  much  longer  than  the 
other  half;  that  on  the  dial-plate  whose 
hours  are  months,  the  restless  finger  seeins 
to  move  more  slowly  when  travelling  up- 
ward from  autumn  leaves  and  snow  to  light, 
than  when  it  is  travelling  downward  from 
light  to  snow  and  withered  leaves. 

Of  all  the  seasons  of  the  year,  I  like  win- 
ter best.  That  peculiar  burden  of  time  I 
have  been  speaking  of,  does  not  affect  me 


138  Christmas. 

now.  The  day  is  short,  and  I  can  fill  it  with 
work ;  when  evening  comes,  I  have  my 
lighted  room  and  my  books.  Should  black 
care  haunt  me,  I  throw  it  off  the  scent  in 
Spenser's  forests,  or  seek  refuge  from  it 
among  Shakspeare's  men  and  women,  who 
are  by  far  the  best  company  I  have  met 
with,  or  am  like  to  meet  with,  on  earth.  I 
am  sitting  at  this  present  moment  with  my 
curtains  drawn  ;  the  cheerful  fire  is  winking 
at  all  the  furniture  in  the  room,  and  from 
every  leg  and  arm  the  furniture  is  winking 
to  the  fire  in  return.  I  put  off  the  outer 
world  with  my  great- coat  and  boots,  and  put 
on  contentment  and  idleness  with  my  slip- 
pers. On  the  hearth-rug.  Pepper,  coiled  in  a 
shaggy  ball,  is  asleep  in  the  ruddy  light  and 
heat.  An  imaginative  sense  of  the  cold  out- 
side increases  my  present  comfort  —  just  as 
one  never  hugs  one's  own  good  luck  so 
affectionately  as  when  listening  to  the  rela- 
tion of  some  horrible  misfortune  which  has 
overtaken  others.  Winter  has  fallen  on 
Dreamthorp,  and  it  looks  as  pretty  when 
covered  with  snow  as  when  covered  with 
apple  blossom.  Outside,  the  ground  is  hard 
as  iron  ;  and  over  the  low  dark  hill,  lo  !  the 
tender  radiance  that  precedes  the  morn. 
Every  window  in   the  little  village   has    its 


Christmas.  139 

light,  and  to  the  traveller  coming  on,  envel- 
oped in  his  breath,  the  whole  place  shines 
like  a  congregation  of  glow-worms.  A 
pleasant  enough  sight  to  him  if  his  home  be 
there  !  At  this  present  season,  the  canal  is 
not  such  a  pleasant  promenade  as  it  was  in 
summer.  The  barges  come  and  go  as  usual, 
but  at  this  time  I  do  not  envy  the  bargemen 
quite  so  much.  The  horse  comes  smoking 
along ;  the  tarpaulin  which  covers  the  mer- 
chandise is  sprinkled  with  hoar-frost ;  and 
the  helmsman,  smoking  his  short  pipe  for  the 
mere  heat  of  it,  cowers  over  a  few  red  cin- 
ders contained  in  a  framework  of  iron.  The 
labour  of  the  poor  fellows  will  soon  be  over 
for  a  time  ;  for  if  this  frost  continues,  the 
canal  will  be  sheathed  in  a  night,  and  next 
day  stones  will  be  thrown  upon  it,  and  a 
daring  urchm  venturing  upon  it  will  go 
souse  head  over  heels,  and  run  home  with 
his  teeth  in  a  chatter;  and  the  day  after,  the 
lake  beneath  the  old  castle  will  be  sheeted, 
and  the  next,  the  villagers  will  be  sliding  on 
its  gleaming  face  from  ruddy  dawn  at  nine 
to  ruddy  eve  at  three ;  and  hours  later, 
skaters  yet  unsatisfied  will  be  moving  ghost- 
like in  the  gloom  —  now  one,  now  another, 
shooting  on  sounding  irons  into  a  clear 
space  of  frosty  light,  chasing  the  moon,  or 


140  Christmas. 

the  flying  image  of  a  star  !     Happy  youths 
leaning  against  the  frosty  wind  ! 

I  am  a  Christian,  I  hope,  although  far 
from  a  muscular  one  —  consequently  I  cannot 
join  the  skaters  on  the  lake.  The  floor  of  ice, 
with  the  people  upon  it,  will  be  but  a  picture 
to  me.  And,  in  truth,  it  is  in  its  pictorial 
aspect  that  I  chiefly  love  the  bleak  season. 
As  an  artist,  winter  can  match  summer  any 
day.  The  heavy,  feathery  flakes  have  been 
falling  all  the  night  through,  we  shall  sup- 
])ose,  and  when  you  get  up  in  the  morning 
the  world  is  draped  in  white.  What  a  sight 
it  is  !  It  is  the  world  you  knew,  but  yet  a 
different  one.  The  familiar  look  has  gone, 
and  another  has  taken  its  place ;  and  a  not 
unpleasant  puzzlement  arises  in  your  mind, 
born  of  the  patent  and  the  remembered  as- 
pect. It  reminds  you  of  a  friend  who  has 
been  suddenly  placed  in  new  circumstances, 
in  whom  there  is  much  that  you  recognise, 
and  much  that  is  entirely  strange.  How 
purely,  divinely  white  when  the  last  snow- 
flake  has  just  fallen  !  How  exquisite  and 
virginal  the  repose  !  It  touches  you  like 
some  perfection  of  music.  And  winter  does 
not  work  only  on  a  broad  scale  ;  he  is  care- 
ful in  trifles.  Pluck  a  single  ivy  leaf  from 
the  old  wall,  and  see  what  a  jeweller  he  is  ! 


Christinas.  141 

How  he  has  silvered  over  the  dark-green 
reticulations  with  his  frosts !  The  faggot 
which  the  Tramp  gathers  for  his  fire  is 
thicklier  incrusted  with  gems  than  ever  was 
sceptre  of  the  Moguls.  Go  into  the  woods, 
and  behold  on  the  black  boughs  his  glories 
of  pearl  and  diamond  —  pendant  splendours 
that,  smitten  by  the  noon-ray,  melt  into 
tears  and  fall  but  to  congeal  into  splendours 
again.  Nor  does  he  work  in  black  and 
white  alone.  He  has  on  his  palette  more 
gorgeous  colours  than  those  in  which  swim 
the  summer  setting  suns ;  and  with  these, 
about  three  o'clock,  he  begins  to  adorn  his 
west,  sticking  his  red  hot  ball  of  a  sun  in  the 
very  midst ;  and  a  couple  of  hours  later, 
when  the  orb  has  fallen,  and  the  flaming 
crimson  has  mellowed  into  liquid  orange,  you 
can  see  the  black  skeletons  of  trees  scribbled 
upon  the  melancholy  glory.  Nor  need  I 
speak  of  the  magnificence  of  a  winter  mid- 
night, when  space,  sombre  blue,  crowded 
with  star  and  planet,  "  burnished  by  the 
frost,"  is  glittering  like  the  harness  of  an 
archangel  full  panoplied  against  a  battle 
day. 

For  years  and  years  now  I  have  watched 
the  seasons  come  and  go  around  Dream- 
thorp,  and  each  in  its  turn  interests  me  as  if 


142  Christmas. 

I  saw  it  for  the  first  time.  But  the  other 
week  it  seems  that  I  saw  the  grain  ripen  ; 
then  by  day  a  motley  crew  of  reapers  were 
in  the  fields,  and  at  night  a  big  red  moon 
looked  down  upon  the  stooks  of  oats  and 
barley ;  then  in  mighty  wains  the  plenteous 
harvest  came  swaying  home,  leaving  a  lar- 
gess on  the  roads  for  every  bird ;  then  the 
round,  yellow,  comfortable-looking  stacks 
stood  around  the  farm-houses,  hiding  them 
to  the  chimneys ;  then  the  woods  reddened, 
the  beech  hedges  became  russet,  and 
every  puff  of  wind  made  rustle  the  withered 
leaves ;  then  the  sunset  came  before  the 
early  dark,  and  in  the  east  lay  banks  of  bleak 
pink  vapour,  which  are  ever  a  prophecy  of 
cold  ;  then  out  of  a  low  dingy  heaven  came 
all  day,  thick  and  silent,  the  whirling  snow  ;  — 
and  so  by  exquisite  succession  of  sight  and 
sound  have  I  been  taken  from  the  top  of  the 
year  to  the  bottom  of  it,  from  midsummer, 
with  its  unreaped  harvests,  to  the  night  on 
which  I  am  sitting  here  —  Christmas,  1862. 

Sitting  here,  I  incontinently  find  myself 
holding  a  levee  of  departed  Christmas  nights. 
Silently,  and  without  special  call,  into  my 
study  of  imagination  come  these  apparitions, 
clad  in  snowy  mantles,  brooched  and  gem- 
med with  frosts.     Their  numbers   I  do  not 


Ch?-istmas,  143 

care  to  count,  for  I  know  they  are  the  num- 
bers of  my  years.  The  visages  of  two  or 
three  are  sad  enough,  but  on  the  whole  'tis 
a  congregation  of  jolly  ghosts.  The  nostrils 
of  my  memory  are  assailed  by  a  faint  odour 
of  plum-pudding  and  burnt  brandy.  I  hear 
a  sound  as  of  light  music,  a  whisk  of  women's 
dresses  whirled  round  in  dance,  a  click  as  of 
glasses  pledged  by  friends.  Before  one  of 
these  apparitions  is  a  mound,  as  of  a  new- 
made  grave,  on  which  the  snow  is  lying.  I 
know,  I  know  !  Drape  thyself  not  in  white 
like  the  others,  but  in  mourning  stole  of 
crape  ;  and  instead  of  dance  music,  let  there 
haunt  around  thee  the  service  for  the  dead  ! 
I  know  that  sprig  of  Mistletoe,  O  Spirit  in 
the  midst !  Under  it  I  swung  the  girl  I  loved 
—  girl  no  more  now  than  I  am  a  boy  —  and 
kissed  her  spite  of  blush  and  pretty  shriek. 
And  thee,  too,  with  fragrant  trencher  in 
hand,  over  which  blue  tongues  of  flame  are 
playing,  do  I  know  —  most  ancient  apparition 
of  them  all.  I  remember  thy  reigning  night. 
Back  to  very  days  of  childhood  am  I  taken 
by  the  ghostly  raisins  simmering  in  a 
ghostly  brandy  flame.  Where  now  the 
merry  boys  and  girls  that  thrust  their  fin- 
gers in  thy  blaze?  And  now,  when  I  think 
of  it,  thee  also  would  1  drape  in  black  rai- 


144  Christmas. 

ment,  around  thee  also  would   I   make  the 
burial  service  murmur. 

Men  hold  the  anniversaries  of  their  birth, 
of  their  marriage,  of  the  birth  of  their  first- 
born, and  they  hold  —  although  they  spread 
no  feast,  and  ask  no  friends  to  assist  —  many 
another  anniversary  besides.  On  many  a 
day  in  every  year  does  a  man  remember 
what  took  place  on  that  self-same  day  in 
some  former  year,  and  chews  the  sweet  or 
bitter  herb  of  memory,  as  the  case  may  be. 
Could  I  ever  hope  to  write  a  decent  Essay, 
I  should  like  to  write  one  "  On  the  Revisit- 
ing of  Places."  It  is  strange  how  important 
the  poorest  human  being  is  to  himself !  how 
he  likes  to  double  back  on  his  experiences, 
to  stand  on  the  place  he  has  stood  on  before, 
to  meet  himself  face  to  face,  as  it  were  !  I 
go  to  the  great  city  in  which  my  early  life 
was  spent,  and  I  love  to  indulge  myself  in 
this  whim.  The  only  thing  I  care  about  is 
that  portion  of  the  city  which  is  connected 
with  myself.  I  don't  think  this  passion  of 
reminiscence  is  debased  by  the  slightest 
taint  of  vanity.  The  lamp-post,  under  the 
light  of  which  in  the  winter  rain  there  was 
a  parting  so  many  years  ago,  I  contemplate 
with  the  most  curious  interest.  I  stare  on 
the  windows  of  the  houses  in  which  I  once 


Chrisfiiias.  145 

lived,  with  a  feeling  which  I  should  find  diffi- 
cult to  express  in  words.  I  think  of  the  life 
I  led  there,  of  the  good  and  the  bad  news 
that  came,  of  the  sister  who  died,  of  the 
brother  who  was  born ;  and  were  it  at  all 
possible,  I  should  like  to  knock  at  the  once 
familiar  door,  and  look  at  the  old  walls  — 
which  could  speak  to  me  so  strangely  —  once 
again.  To  revisit  that  city  is  like  walking 
away  back  into  my  yesterdays.  I  startle 
myself  with  myself  at  the  corners  of  streets, 
I  confront  forgotten  bits  of  myself  at  the 
entrance  to  houses.  In  windows  which  to 
another  man  would  seem  blank  and  mean- 
ingless, I  find  personal  poems  too  deep  to 
be  ever  turned  into  rhymes  —  more  pathetic, 
mayhap,  than  I  have  ever  found  on  printed 
page.  The  spot  of  ground  on  which  a  man 
has  stood  is  for  ever  interesting  to  him. 
Every  experience  is  an  anchor  holding  him 
the  more  firmly  to  existence.  It  is  for  this 
reason  that  we  hold  our  sacred  days,  silent 
and  solitary  anniversaries  of  joy  and  bitter- 
ness, renewing  ourselves  thereby,  going  back 
upon  ourselves,  living  over  again  the  mem- 
orable experience.  The  full  yellow  moon  of 
next  September  will  gather  into  itself  the 
light  of  the  full  yellow  moons  of  Septembers 
long  ago.     In  this  Christmas  night  all   the 


146  Christmas, 

other  Christmas  nights  of  my  life  live.  How 
warm,  breathing,  full  of  myself  is  the  year 
1862,  now  almost  gone  !  How  bare,  cheer- 
less, unknown,  the  year  1863,  about  to  come 
in  !  It  stretches  before  me  in  imagination 
like  some  great,  gaunt  untenanted  ruin 
of  a  Colosseum,  in  which  no  footstej) 
falls,  no  voice  is  heard ;  and  by  this  night 
year  its  naked  chambers  and  windows,  three 
hundred  and  sixty-five  in  number,  will  be 
clothed  all  over,  and  hidden  by  myself  as  if 
with  covering  ivies.  Looking  forward  into 
an  empty  year  strikes  one  with  a  certain  awe, 
because  one  finds  therein  no  recognition. 
The  years  behind  have  a  friendly  aspect,  and 
they  are  warmed  by  the  fires  we  have 
kindled,  and  all  their  echoes  are  the  echoes 
of  our  own  voices. 

This,  then,  is  Christmas,  1862.  Everything 
is  silent  in  Dreamthorp.  The  smith's  ham- 
mer reposes  beside  the  anvil.  The  weaver's 
Hying  shuttle  is  at  rest.  Through  the  clear 
wintry  sunshine  the  bells  this  morning  rang 
from  the  gray  church  tower  amid  the  leafless 
elms,  and  up  the  walk  the  villagers  trooped 
in  their  best  dresses  and  their  best  faces  — 
the  latter  a  little  reddened  by  the  sharp  wind  : 
mere  redness  in  the  middle  aged ;  in  the 
maids,  wonderful  bloom  to  the  eyes  of  their 


Christmas.  147 

lovers  —  and  took  their  places  decently  in 
the  ancient  pews.  The  clerk  read  the  beau- 
tiful prayers  of  our  Church,  which  seem 
more  beautiful  at  Christmas  than  at  any 
other  period.  For  that  very  feeling  which 
breaks  down  at  this  time  the  barriers  which 
custom,  birth,  or  wealth  have  erected  be- 
tween man  and  man,  strikes  down  the  bar- 
rier of  time  which  intervenes  between  the 
worshipper  of  to-day  and  the  great  body  of 
worshippers  who  are  at  rest  in  their  graves. 
On  such  a  day  as  this,  hearing  these  prayers, 
we  feel  a  kinship  with  the  devout  generations 
who  heard  them  long  ago.  The  devout  lips 
of  the  Christian  dead  murmured  the  re- 
sponses which  we  now  murmur;  along  this 
road  of  prayer  did  their  thoughts  of  our  in- 
numerable dead,  our  brothers  and  sisters  in 
faith  and  hope,  approach  the  Maker,  even  as 
ours  at  present  approach  Him.  Prayers  over, 
the  clergyman  —  who  is  no  Boanerges,  or 
Chrysostom,  golden-mouthed,  but  a  loving, 
genial-hearted,  pious  man,  the  whole  extent 
of  his  life  from  boyhood  until  now,  full  of 
charity  and  kindly  deeds,  as  autumn  fields 
with  heavy  wheaten  ears ;  the  clergyman,  I 
say  —  for  the  sentence  is  becoming  unwieldy 
on  my  hands,  and  one  must  double  back  to 
secure  connexion  —  read  out  in  that  silvery 


148  Christmas. 

voice  of  his,  which  is  sweeter  than  any  music 
to  my  ear,  those  chapters  of  the  New  Testa- 
ment that  deal  with  the  birth  of  the  Saviour. 
And  the  red-faced  rustic  congregation  hung 
on  the  good  man's  voice  as  he  spoke  of  the 
Inflmt  brought  forth  in  a  manger,  of  the  shin- 
ing angels  that  appeared  in  mid-air  to  the 
shepherds,  of  the  miraculous  star  that  took 
its  station  in  the  sky,  and  of  the  wise  men 
who  came  from  afar  and  laid  their  gifts  of 
frankincense  and  myrrh  at  the  feet  of  the 
child.  With  the  story  every  one  was  famil- 
iar, but  on  that  day,  and  backed  by  the  per- 
suasive melody  of  the  reader's  voice,  it 
seemed  to  all  quite  new  —  at  least,  they 
listened  attentively  as  if  it  were.  The  dis- 
course that  followed  possessed  no  remark- 
able thoughts ;  it  dealt  simply  with  the 
goodness  of  the  Maker  of  heaven  and  earth, 
and  the  shortness  of  time,  with  the  duties  of 
thankfulness  and  charity  to  the  poor ;  ^and 
I  am  persuaded  that  every  one  who  heard 
returned  to  his  house  in  a  better  frame  of 
mind.  And  so  the  service  remitted  us  all  to 
our  own  homes,  to  what  roast-beef  and  plum- 
pudding  slender  means  permitted,  to  gather- 
ings around  cheerful  fires,  to  half-pleasant, 
half- sad  remembrances  of  the  dead  and  the 
absent. 


Chris  f mas. 


149 


From  sermon  I  have  returned  like  the 
others,  and  it  is  my  purpose  to  hold  Christ- 
mas alone.  I  have  no  one  with  me  at  table, 
and  my  own  thoughts  must  be  my  Christmas 
guests.  Sitting  here,  it  is  pleasant  to  think 
how  much  kindly  feeling  exists  this  present 
night  in  England.  By  imagination  I  can 
taste  of  every  table,  pledge  every  toast, 
silently  join  in  every  roar  of  merriment.  I 
become  a  sort  of  universal  guest.  With  what 
propriety  is  this  jovial  season,  placed  amid 
dismal  December  rains  and  snows  !  How 
one  pities  the  unhappy  Australians,  with 
whom  everything  is  turned  topsy-turvy,  and 
who  hold  Christmas  at  midsummer  !  The 
face  of  Christmas  glows  all  the  brighter  for 
the  cold.  The  heart  warms  as  the  frost 
increases.  Estrangements  which  have  em- 
bittered the  whole  year,  melt  in  to-night's 
hospitable  smile.  There  are  warmer  hand- 
shakings on  this  night  than  during  the  by- 
past  twelve  months.  Friend  lives  in  the 
mind  of  friend.  There  is  more  charity  at 
this  time  than  at  any  other.  You  get  up  at 
midnight  and  toss  your  spare  coppers  to  the 
half-benumbed  musicians  whiffling  beneath 
your  windows,  although  at  any  other  time 
you  would  consider  their  performance  a 
nuisance,    and    call    angrily  for    the    police. 


150  Christmas. 

Poverty,  and  scanty  clothing,  and  fireless 
grates,  come  home  at  this  season  to  the 
bosoms  of  the  rich,  and  they  give  of  their 
abundance.  The  ver}'  red-breast  of  the 
woods  enjoys  his  Christmas  feast.  Good 
feeling  incarnates  itself  in  plum-pudding. 
The  Master's  words,  "The  poor  ye  have 
always  with  you,"  wear  at  this  time  a  deep 
significance.  For  at  least  one  night  on  each 
year  over  all  Christendom  there  is  brother- 
hood. And  good  men,  sitting  amongst  their 
families,  or  by  a  solitary  fire  like  me,  when 
they  remember  the  light  that  shone  ov^r  the 
poor  clowns  huddling  on  the  Bethlehem 
plains  eighteen  hundred  years  ago,  the  ap- 
parition of  shining  angels  overhead,  the 
song  "  Peace  on  earth  and  good -will  toward 
men,"  which  for  the  first  time  hallowed  the 
midnight  air,  —  pray  for  that  strain's  fulfil- 
ment, that  battle  and  strife  may  vex  the 
nations  no  more,  that  not  only  on  Christmas- 
eve,  but  the  whole  year  round,  men  shall  be 
brethren  owning  one  Father  in  heaven. 

.Although  suggested  by  the  season,  and  by 
a  solitary  dinner,  it  is  not  my  purpose  to 
indulge  in  personal  reminiscence  and  talk. 
Let  all  that  pass.  This  is  Christmas-day, 
the  anniversary  of  the  world's  greatest  event. 
To  one  day  all  the  early  world  looked  for- 


Christinas. 


151 


ward ;  to  the  same  day  the  later  world  looks 
back.  That  day  holds  time  together.  Isaiah, 
standing  on  the  peaks  of  prophecy,  looked 
across  ruined  empires  and  the  desolations 
of  many  centuries,  and  saw  on  the  horizon 
the  new  star  arise,  and  was  glad.  On  this 
night  eighteen  hundred  years  ago,  Jove  was 
discrowned,  the  Pagan  heaven  emptied  of 
its  divinities,  and  Olympus  left  to  the  soli- 
tude of  its  snows.  On  this  night,  so  many 
hundred  years  bygone,  the  despairing  voice 
was  heard  shrieking  on  the  ^-Egean,  "  Pan 
is  dead,  great  Pan  is  dead  !  "  On  this  night, 
according  to  the  fine  reverence  of  the  poets, 
all  things  that  blast  and  blight  are  powerless, 
disarmed  by  sweet  influence  :  — 

"  Some  say  that  ever  'gainst  the  season  comes 
Wherein  our  Saviour's  birth  is  celebrated 
The  bird  of  dawning  singeth  all  night  long; 
And  then  they  say  no  spirit  dares  stir  abroad  ; 
The  nights  are  wholesome ;  then  no  planets  strike  ; 
No  fairy  takes,  nor  witch  hath  power  to  charm  : 
So  hallowed  and  so  gracious  is  the  time." 

The  flight  of  the  Pagan  mythology  before 
the  new  faith  has  been  a  fav^ourite  subject 
with  the  poets ;  and  it  has  been  my  custom 
for  many  seasons  to  read  Milton's  "  Hymn 
to  the  Nativity  "  on  the  evening  of  Christ- 
mas-day. The  bass  of  heaven's  deep  organ 
seems  to  blow  in  the  lines,  and  slowly  and 


152  Christmas. 

with  many  echoes  the  strain  melts  into 
silence.  To  my  ear  the  lines  sound  like  the 
full-voiced  choir  and  the  rolling  organ  of  a 
cathedral,  when  the  afternoon  light  stream- 
ing through  the  painted  windows  fills  the 
place  with  solemn  colours  and  masses  of 
gorgeous  gloom.  To-night  I  shall  float  my 
lonely  hours  away  on  music  :  — 

"  The  oracles  are  dumb, 
No  voice  or  hideous  hum 
Runs  through  the  arched  roof  in  words  deceiving ; 
Apollo  from  his  shrine 
Can  no  more  divine 
With  hollow  shriek  the  steep  of  Delphos  leaving. 
No  nightly  trance  or  breathed  spell 
Inspires  the  pale-eyed  priest  from  the  prophetic  cell. 

"  The  lonely  mountains  o'er, 
And  the  resounding  sliore, 
A  voice  of  weejjing  heard  and  loud  lament  : 
From  haunted  spring,  and  dale 
Edged  with  j)oplars  ])ale. 
The  parting  genius  is  with  sighing  sent : 
With  flower-enwoven  tresses  torn 
The  nymphs  in  twilight  shades  of  tangled  thickets 
mourn. 

"  Peer  and  IJaalim 
Forsake  their  temples  dim 
With  that  twice-battered  god  of  Palestine; 
And  mooned  Ashtaroth, 
Heaven's  c)ueen  and  mother  both, 
Now  sits  not  girl  with  tapers'  holy  shine  ! 

The  Lybic  Hammon  shrinks  his  horn. 
In  vain  the  Tyrian  maids  their  wounded  Thammuz 
mourn. 


Christmas.  153 

"And  sullen  Molocli,  fled, 
Hath  left  in  shadows  dread 
His  burning  idol,  all  of  blackest  hue  : 
In  vain  with  cymbals'  ring 
They  call  the  grisly  king 
In  tlismal  dance  about  the  furnace  blue  : 
The  Brutish  gods  of  Nile  as  fast, 
Isis,  and  Orus,  and  the  dog  Anubis  haste. 

"  He  feels  from  Juda's  land 
The  dreaded  Infant's  hand, 
The  rays  of  Bethlehem  blind  his  dusky  eyne : 
Nor  all  the  gods  beside 
Dare  longer  there  abide, 
Not  Typhon  huge  ending  in  snaky  twine. 
Our  P.abe  to  shew  His  Godhead  true 
Can  in  His  swaddling  bands  control  the   damned 
crew." 

These  verses,  as  if  loath  to  die,  hnger  with 
a  certain  persistence  in  mind  and  ear.  This 
is  the  "  mighty  hne "  which  critics  talk 
about  !  And  just  as  in  an  infant's  face  you 
may  discern  the  rudiments  of  the  future  man, 
so  in  the  glorious  hymn  may  be  traced  the 
more  majestic  lineaments  of  the  "  Paradise 
Lost." 

Strangely  enough,  the  next  noblest  dirge 
for  the  unrealmed  divinities  which  I  can  call 
to  remembrance,  and  at  the  same  time  the 
most  eloquent  celebration  of  the  new  power 
and  prophecy  of  its  triumph,  has  been  ut- 
tered by  Shelley,  who  cannot  in  any  sense 
be  termed  a  Christian  poet.     It  is  one  of  the 


154  CJiristmas. 

choruses  in  "  Hellas,"  and  perhaps  had  he 
lived  longer  amongst  us,  it  would  have  been 
the  prelude  to  higher  strains.  Of  this  I  am 
certain,  that  before  his  death  the  mind  of  that 
brilliant  genius  was  rapidly  changing,  —  that 
for  him  the  cross  was  gathering  attractions 
round  it,  —  that  the  wall  which  he  com- 
plained had  been  built  up  between  his  heart 
and  his  intellect  was  being  broken  down,  and 
that  rays  of  a  strange  splendour  were  already 
streaming  upon  him  through  the  interstices. 
What  a  contrast  between  the  darkened 
glory  of  "Queen  Mab  "  —  of  which  in  after- 
life he  was  ashamed,  both  as  a  literary  work 
and  as  an  expression  of  opinion  —  and  the 
intense,  clear,  lyrical  light  of  this  triumphant 
poem  !  — 

"  A  power  from  the  unknown  God, 
A  Promethean  conqueror  came  : 
Like  a  triumphal  path  he  trod 
The  thorns  of  death  and  shame. 

A  mortal  shape  to  him 

Was  like  the  vapour  dim 
Which  the  orient  planet  animates  with  light. 

Hell,  sin,  and  slavery  came 

Like  bloodhounds  mild  and  tame, 
Nor  prey'd  until  their  lord  had  taken  flight. 

The  moon  of  Mahomet 

Arose,  and  it  shall  set ; 
While  l)lazon'd,  as  on  heaven's  immortal  noon, 
The  Cross  leads  generations  on. 


Christmas.  155 

"  Swift  as  the  radiant  shapes  of  sleep, 
From  one  whose  dreams  are  paradise, 
Fly,  when  the  fond  wretch  wakes  to  weep, 
And  day  peers  forth  with  her  blank  eyes: 

So  iieet,  so  faint,  so  fair. 

The  powers  of  earth  and  air 
Fled  from  the  folding  star  of  Bethlehem. 

Apollo,  Pan,  and  Love, 

And  even  Olympian  Jove, 
Grew  weak,  for  killing  Truth  had  glared  on  them. 

Our  hills,  and  seas,  and  streams, 

Dispeopled  of  their  dreams. 
Their  water  turned  to  blood,  their  dew  to  tears. 
Wailed  for  the  golden  years." 

For  my  own  part,  I  cannot  read  these  lines 
without  emotion  —  not  so  much  for  their 
beauty  as  for  the  change  in  the  writer's 
mind  which  they  suggest.  The  self-sacrifice 
which  lies  at  the  centre  of  Christianity 
should  have  touched  this  man  more  deeply 
than  almost  any  other.  That  it  was  begin- 
ning to  touch  and  mould  him,  I  verily  be- 
lieve. He  died  and  made  that  sign.  Of 
what  music  did  that  storm  in  Spezia  Bay 
rob  the  world  ! 

"The  Cross  leads  generations  on."  Be- 
lieving as  I  do  that  my  own  personal  decease 
is  not  more  certain  than  that  our  religion 
will  subdue  the  world,  1  own  that  it  is  with 
a  somewhat  saddened  heart  that  I  pass  my 
thoughts  around  the  globe,  and  consider 
how  distant  is  yet  that  triumph.     There  are 


156  Christmas. 

the  realms  on  which  the  crescent  beams,  the 
monstrous  many-headed  gods  of  India,  the 
Chinaman's  heathenism,  the  African's  devil- 
rites.  These  are,  to  a  large  extent,  princi- 
palities and  powers  of  darkness  with  which 
our  religion  has  never  been  brought  into 
collision,  save  at  trivial  and  far  separated 
points,  and  in  these  cases  the  attack  has 
never  been  made  in  strength.  But  what  of 
our  own  Europe  —  the  home  of  philosophy, 
of  poetry,  and  painting?  Europe,  which  has 
produced  Greece,  and  Rome,  and  England's 
centuries  of  glory  ;  which  has  been  illumined 
by  the  fires  of  martyrdom  ;  which  has  heard 
a  Luther  preach;  which  has  listened  to 
Dante's  "mystic  unfathomable  song";  to 
which  Milton  has  opened  the  door  of  heaven 
—  what  of  it  ?  And  what,  too,  of  that  youn- 
ger America,  starting  in  its  career  with  all 
our  good  things,  and  enfranchised  of  many 
of  our  evils?  Did  not  the  December  sun 
now  shining  look  down  on  thousands  slaugh- 
tered at  Fredericksburg,  in  a  most  mad, 
most  incomprehensible  quarrel?  And  is 
not  the  public  air  which  European  nations 
breathe  at  this  moment,  as  it  has  been  for 
several  years  back,  charged  with  thunder? 
Despots  are  plotting,  ships  are  building, 
man's  ingenuity  is  bent,  as  it  never  was  bent 


Christmas.  157 

before,  on  the  invention  and  improvement 
of  instruments  of  death  ;  Europe  is  bristling 
with  five  miUions  of  bayonets ':  and  this  is 
the  condition  of  a  world  for  which  the  Son 
of  God  died  eighteen  hundred  and  sixty-two 
years  ago  !  There  is  no  mystery  of  Provi- 
dence so  inscrutable  as  this ;  and  yet,  is  not 
the  very  sense  of  its  mournfulness  a  proof 
that  the  spirit  of  Christianity  is  living  in  the 
minds  of  men?  For,  of  a  verity,  military 
glory  is  becoming  in  our  best  thoughts  a 
bloody  rag,  and  conquest  the  first  in  the 
catalogue  of  mighty  crimes,  and  a  throned 
tyrant,  with  armies,  and  treasures,  and  the 
cheers  of  millions  rising  up  like  a  cloud  of 
incense  around  him,  but  a  mark  for  the 
thunderbolt  of  Almighty  God  —  in  reality 
poorer  than  Lazarus  stretched  at  the  gate  of 
Dives.  Besides,  all  these  things  are  getting 
themselves  to  some  extent  mitigated.  Flor- 
ence Nightingale  —  for  the  first  time  in  the 
history  of  the  world  —  walks  through  the 
Scutari  hospitals,  and  "  poor,  noble,  wounded 
and  sick  men,"  to  use  her  Majesty's  tender 
phrases,  kiss  her  shadow  as  it  falls  on  them. 
The  Emperor  Napoleon  does  not  make  war 
to  employ  his  armies,  or  to  consolidate  his 
power ;  he  does  so  for  the  sake  of  an  "  idea," 
more    or   less   generous    and    disinterested. 


158  CJiristmas. 

The  soul  of  mankind  would  revolt  at  the 
blunt,  naked  truth ;  and  the  taciturn  em- 
peror knows  this,  as  he  knows  most  things. 
This  imperial  hypocrisy,  like  every  other 
hypocrisy,  is  a  homage  which  vice  pays  to 
virtue.  There  cannot  be  a  doubt  that  when 
the  political  crimes  of  kings  and  govern- 
ments, the  sores  that  fester  in  the  heart  of 
society,  and  all  "  the  burden  of  the  unin- 
telligible world,"  weigh  heaviest  on  the 
mind,  we  have  to  thank  Christianity  for  it. 
That  pure  light  makes  visible  the  darkness. 
The  Sermon  on  the  Mount  makes  the  mor- 
ality of  the  nations  ghastly.  The  Divine 
love  makes  human  hate  stand  out  in  dark 
relief.  This  sadness,  in  the  essence  of  it 
nobler  than  any  joy,  is  the  heritage  of  the 
Christian.  An  ancient  Roman  could  not 
have  felt  so.  Everything  runs  on  smoothly 
enough  so  long  as  Jove  wields  the  thunder. 
P>ut  Venus,  Mars,  and  Minerva  are  far  behind 
us  now ;  the  Cross  is  before  us ;  and  self- 
denial  and  sorrow  for  sin,  and  the  remem- 
brance of  the  poor,  and  the  cleansing  of  our 
own  hearts,  are  duties  incumbent  upon 
every  one  of  us.  If  the  Christian  is  less 
happy  than  the  Pagan,  and  at  times  I  think 
he  is  so,  it  arises  from  the  reproach  of  the 
Christian's  unreached    ideal,    and  from   the 


Christmas.  159 

stings  of  his  finer  and  more  scrupulous  con- 
science. His  whole  moral  organisation  is 
finer,  and  he  must  pay  the  noble  penalty  of 
finer  organisations. 

Once  again,  for  the  purpose  of  taking 
away  all  solitariness  of  feeling,  and  of  con- 
necting myself,  albeit  only  in  fancy,  with  the 
proper  gladness  of  the  time,  let  me  think  of 
the  comfortable  family  dinners  now  being 
drawn  to  a  close,  of  the  good  wishes  uttered, 
and  the  presents  made,-  quite  valueless  m 
themselves,  yet  felt  to  be  invaluable  from 
the  feelings  from  which  they  spring ;  of  the 
little  children,  by  sweetmeats  lapped  in  Ely- 
sium ;  and  of  the  pantomime,  pleasantest 
Christmas  sight  of  all,  with  the  pit  a  sea  of 
grinning  delight,  the  boxes  a  tier  of  beam- 
ing juvenility,  the  galleries,  piled  up  to  the 
far-receding  roof,  a  mass  of  happy  laughter 
which  a  clown's  joke  brings  down  in  mighty 
avalanches.  In  the  pit,  sober  people  relax 
themselves,  and  suck  oranges,  and  quaff 
ginger- pop;  in  the  boxes.  Miss,  gazing 
through  her  curls,  thinks  the  Fairy  Prince 
the  prettiest  creature  she  ever  beheld,  and 
Master,  that  to  be  a  clown  must  be  the  pin- 
nacle of  human  happiness  :  while  up  in  the 
galleries  the  hard  literal  world  is  for  an  hour 
sponged  out  and  obliterated  ;  the  chimney- 


i6o  Christmas. 

sweep  forgets,  in  his  delight  when  the  po- 
hceman  comes  to  grief,  the  harsh  call  of  his 
master,  and  Cinderella,  when  the  demons 
are  foiled,  and  the  long  parted  lovers  meet 
and  embrace  in  a  paradise  of  light  and  pink 
gauze,  the  grates  that  must  be  scrubbed  to- 
morrow. All  bands  and  trappings  of  toil 
are  for  one  hour  loosened  by  the  hands  of 
imaginative  sympathy.  What  happiness  a 
single  theatre  can  contain  !  And  those  of 
maturer  years,  or  of  more  meditativ^e  tem- 
perament, sitting  at  the  pantomime,  can  ex- 
tract out  of  the  shifting  scenes  meanings 
suitable  to  themselves ;  for  the  pantomime 
is  a  symbol  or  adumbration  of  human  hfe. 
Have  we  not  all  known  Harlequin,  who 
rules  the  roast,  and  has  the  pretty  Colum- 
bine to  himself  ?  Do  we  not  all  know  that 
rogue  of  a  clown  with  his  peculating  fingers, 
who  brazens  out  of  every  scrape,  and  who 
conquers  the  world  by  good  humour  and 
ready  wit?  And  have  we  not  seen  Panta- 
loons not  a  few,  whose  fate  it  is  to  get  all 
the  kicks  and  lose  all  the  halfpence,  to  fall 
through  all  the  trap  doors,  break  their  shins 
over  all  the  barrows,  and  be  forever  cap- 
tured by  the  policeman,  while  the  true  pil- 
ferer, the  clown,  makes  his  escape  with  the 
booty  in  his  possession?     Methinks  I  know 


Christmas.  i6i 

the  realities  of  which  these  things  are  but 
the  shadows ;  have  met  with  them  in  busi- 
ness, have  sat  with  them  at  dinner.  But 
to-night  no  such  notions  as  these  intrude  ; 
and  when  the  torrent  of  fun,  and  transfor- 
mation, and  practical  joking  which  rushed 
out  of  the  beautiful  fairy  world  gathered  up 
again,  the  high- heaped  happiness  of  the 
theatre  will  disperse  itself,  and  the  Christmas 
pantomime  will  be  a  pleasant  memory  the 
whole  year  through.  Thousands  on  thou- 
sands of  people  are  having  their  midriffs 
tickled  at  this  moment ;  in  fancy  I  see  their 
lighted  faces,  in  memory  I  hear  their  mirth. 
By  this  time  I  should  think  every  Christ- 
mas dinner  at  Dreamthorp  or  elsewhere  has 
come  to  an  end.  Even  now  in  the  great 
cities  the  theatres  will  be  dispersing.  The 
clown  has  wiped  the  paint  off  his  face. 
Harlequin  has  laid  aside  his  wand,  and 
divested  himself  of  his  glittering  raiment ; 
Pantaloon,  after  refreshing  himself  with  a 
pint  of  porter,  is  rubbing  his  aching  joints ; 
and  Columbine,  wrapped  up  in  a  shawl,  and 
with  sleepy  eyelids,  has  gone  home  in  a  cab. 
Soon,  in  the  great  theatre,  the  lights  will  be 
put  out,  and  the  empty  stage  will  be  left  to 
ghosts.  Hark  !  midnight  from  the  church 
tower   vibrates    through    the    frosty  air.       I 


1 6  2  Christmas. 

look  out  on  the  brilliant  heaven,  and  see  a 
milky  way  of  powder}'  splendour  wandering 
through  it,  and  clusters  and  knots  of  stars 
and  planets  shining  serenely  in  the  blue 
frosty  spaces  :  and  the  armed  apparition  of 
Orion,  his  spear  pointing  away  into  im- 
measurable space,  gleaming  overhead  ;  and 
the  familiar  constellation  of  the  Plough  dip- 
ping down  into  the  west ;  and  I  think  when 
I  go  in  again  that  there  is  one  Christmas  the 
less  between  me  and  my  grave. 


WiLLi-^^M   i-l-AyZLiyy. 


jIR.  HAZLITT  has  written  many 
pleasant  essays,  but  none  pleas- 
anter  than  that  entitled  "  My 
,  ,-w  ^.  .  First  Acquaintance  with  Poets," 
which,  in  the  edition  edited  by  his  son,  opens 
the  IVintersioe  series.  It  relates  almost  en- 
tirely to  Coleridge  ;  containing  sketches  of 
his  personal  appearance,  fragments  of  his 
conversation,  and  is  filled  with  a  young  man's 
generous  enthusiasm,  belief,  admiration,  as 
with  sunrise.  He  had  met  Coleridge,  walked 
with  him,  talked  with  him,  and  the  high  in- 
tellectual experience  not  only  made  him 
better  acquainted  with  his  own  spirit  and  its 
folded  powers,  but  —  as  is  ever  the  case  with 
such  spiritual  encounters  —  it  touched  and 
illuminated  the  dead  outer  world.  The  road 
between  Wem  and  Shrewsbury  was  familiar 
enough  to  Hazlitt,  but  as  the  twain  passed 
along  it  on  that  winter  day,  it  became  ethere 
alised,  poetic  —  wonderful,  as  if  leading  across 


164  Men  of  Letters. 

the  Delectable  Mountains  to  the  Golden 
City,  whose  gleam  is  discernible  on  the  ho- 
rizon. The  milestones  were  mute  with  atten- 
tion, the  pines  upon  the  hill  had  ears  for  the 
stranger  as  he  passed.  Eloquence  made 
the  red  leaves  rustle  on  the  oak ;  made  the 
depth  of  heaven  seem  as  if  swept  by  a  breath 
of  spring ;  and  when  the  evening  star  ap- 
peared, Hazlitt  saw  it  as  Adam  did  while  in 
Paradise  and  but  one  day  old.  "  As  we 
passed  along,"  writes  the  essayist,  "  between 
Wem  and  Shrewsbury,  and  I  eyed  the  blue 
hill  tops  seen  through  the  wintry  branches, 
or  the  red,  rustling  leaves  of  the  sturdy  oak- 
trees  by  the  wayside,  a  sound  was  in  my  ears 
as  of  a  siren's  song.  I  was  stunned,  startled 
with  it  as  from  deep  sleep ;  but  I  had  no 
notion  that  I  should  ever  be  able  to  express 
my  admiration  to  others  in  motley  imagery 
or  quaint  allusion,  till  the  light  of  his  genius 
shone  into  my  soul,  like  the  sun's  rays 
glittering  in  the  puddles  of  the  road.  I  was 
at  that  time  dumb,  inarticulate,  helpless, 
like  a  worm  by  the  wayside,  crushed,  bleed- 
ing, lifeless ;  but  now,  bursting  from  the 
deadly  bands  that  bound  them,  my  ideas 
float  on  winged  words,  and  as  they  expand 
their  plumes,  catch  the  golden  light  of  other 
years.     My  soul  has  indeed  remained  in  its 


Men  of  Letters.  165 

original  bondage,  dark,  obscure,  with  long- 
ings infinite  and  unsatisfied ;  my  heart,  shut 
up  in  the  prison-house  of  this  rude  clay,  has 
never  found,  nor  will  it  ever  find,  a  heart  to 
speak  to ;  but  that  my  understanding  also 
did  not  remain  dumb  and  brutish,  or  at  length 
found  a  language  to  express  itself,  I  owe  to 
Coleridge."  Time  and  sorrow,  personal  am- 
bition thwarted  and  fruitlessly  driven  back 
on  itself,  hopes  for  the  world  defeated  and 
unrealised,  changed  the  enthusiastic  youth 
into  a  petulant,  unsocial  man  ;  yet  ever  as 
he  remembered  that  meeting  and  his  wintry 
walk  from  Wem  to  Shrewsbury,  the  early 
glow  came  back,  and  a  "  sound  was  in  his 
ears  as  of  a  siren's  song." 

We  are  not  all  hero-worshippers  like  Haz- 
litt,  but  most  of  us  are  so  to  a  large  extent. 
A  large  proportion  of  mankind  feel  a  quite 
peculiar  interest  in  famous  writers.  They 
like  to  read  about  them,  to  know  what  they 
said  on  this  or  the  other  occasion,  what  sort 
of  house  they  inhabited,  what  fashion  of 
dress  they  wore,  if  they  liked  any  particular 
dish  for  dinner,  what  kind  of  women  they 
fell  in  love  with,  and  whether  their  domestic 
atmosphere  was  stormy  or  the  reverse.  Con- 
cerning such  men  no  bit  of  information  is 
too  trifling ;  everything  helps  to  make  out 
the  mental  image  we  have  dimly  formed  for 


1 66  Men  of  Letters. 

ourselves.  And  this  kind  of  interest  is 
heightened  by  the  artistic  way  in  which  time 
occasionally  groups  them.  The  race  is  gre- 
garious, they  are  visible  to  us  in  clumps  like 
primroses,  they  are  brought  into  neighbour- 
hood and  flash  light  on  each  other  like  gems 
in  a  diadem.  We  think  of  the  wild  geniuses 
who  came  up  from  the  universities  to  London 
in  the  dawn  of  the  English  drama,  (ireene, 
Nash,  Marlowe  —  our  first  professional  men 
of  letters  —  how  they  cracked  their  satirical 
whips,  how  they  brawled  in  taverns,  how 
pinched  they  were  at  times,  how,  when  they 
possessed  money,  they  flung  it  from  them 
as  if  it  were  poison,  with  what  fierce  speed 
they  wrote,  how  they  shook  the  stage.  Then 
we  think  of  the  "  Mermaid  "  in  session,  with 
Shakspeare's  bland,  oval  face,  the  light  of 
a  smile  spread  over  it,  and  Ben  Jonson's 
truculent  visage,  and  Beaumont  and  Fletcher 
sitting  together  in  their  beautiful  friendship, 
and  fancy  as  best  we  can  the  drollery,  the 
repartee,  the  sage  sentences,  the  lightning 
gleams  of  wit,  the  thunder-peals  of  laughter. 

"  What  things  have  we  seen 
Done  at  the  Mermaid  ?    Heard  words  that  hath  been 
So  nimble,  and  so  full  of  subtle  flame, 
As  if  that  every  one  from  whence  they  came 
Had  meant  to  put  his  whole  soul  in  a  jest. 
And  had  resolved  to  live  a  fool  the  rest 
Of  his  dull  life." 


Men  0/  Letters.  167 

Then  there  is  the  "  Literary  Club,"  with 
Johnson,  and  Garrick,  and  Burke,  and  Rey- 
nolds, and  Goldsmith  sitting  in  perpetuity 
in  Boswell.  The  Doctor  has  been  talking 
there  for  a  hundred  years,  and  there  will  he 
talk  for  many  a  hundred  more.  And  we  of 
another  generation,  and  with  other  things 
to  think  about,  can  enter  any  night  we 
please,  and  hear  what  is  going  on.  Then 
we  have  the  swarthy  ploughman  from  Ayr- 
shire sitting  at  Lord  Monboddo's  with  Dr. 
Blair,  Dugald  Stewart,  Henry  Mackenzie, 
and  the  rest.  These  went  into  the  presence 
of  the  wonderful  rustic  thoughtlessly 
enough,  and  now  they  cannot  return  even  if 
they  would.  They  are  defrauded  of  oblivion. 
Not  yet  have  they  tasted  forgetfulness  and 
the  grave.  The  day  may  come  when  Burns 
will  be  forgotten,  but  till  that  day  arrives 
—  and  the  eastern  sky  as  yet  gives  no  token 
of  its  approach  — him  they  must  attend  as 
satellites  the  sun,  as  courtiers  their  king. 
Then  there  are  the  Lakers,  —  Wordsworth, 
Coleridge,  Southey,  De  Quincey  burdened 
with  his  tremendous  dream,  Wilson  in  his 
splendid  youth.  What  talk,  what  argument, 
what  readings  of  lyrical  and  other  ballads, 
what  contempt  of  critics,  what  a  hail  of  fine 
things  !     Then  there  is  Charles  Lamb's  room 


1 68  Men  of  Letters. 

in  Inner  Temple  Lane,  the  hush  of  a  whist 
table  in  one  corner,  the  host  stuttering  i)uns 
as  he  deals  the  cards ;  and  sitting  round 
about,  Hunt,  whose  every  sentence  is  fla- 
voured with  the  hawthorn  and  the  primrose, 
and  Hazlitt  maddened  by  Waterloo  and  St. 
Helena,  and  Godwin  with  his  wild  theories, 
and  Kemble  with  his  Roman  look.  And 
before  the  morning  comes,  and  Lamb  stut- 
ters yet  more  thickly —  for  there  is  a  slight 
flavour  of  ])unch  in  the  apartment  —  what 
talk  there  has  been  of  Hogarth's  prints,  of 
Izaak  Walton,  of  the  old  dramatists,  of  Sir 
Thomas  Browne's  "  Urn  Burial,"  with  Elia's 
quaint  humour  breaking  through  every  in- 
terstice, and  flowering  in  every  fissure  and 
cranny  of  the  conversation  !  One  likes  to 
think  of  these  social  gatherings  of  wit  and 
geniuses ;  they  are  more  interesting  than 
conclaves  of  kings  or  convocations  of  bish- 
ops. One  would  like  to  have  been  the 
waiter  at  the  "  Mermaid,"  and  to  have  stood 
behind  Shakspeare's  chair.  What  was  that 
functionary's  opinion  of  his  guests?  Did 
he  listen  and  become  witty  by  infection?  or 
did  he,  when  his  task  was  over,  retire  un- 
concernedly to  chalk  up  the  tavern  score? 
One  envies  somewhat  the  damsel  who 
brought  Lamb  the  spirit-case  and   the    hot 


Men  of  Letters.  169 

water.  I  think  of  these  meetings,  and,  in 
lack  of  companionship,  frame  for  myself 
imaginary  conversations  —  not  so  brilliant, 
of  course,  as  Mr.  Landor's,  but  yet  sufficient 
to  make  pleasant  for  me  the  twilight  hour 
while  the  lamp  is  yet  unlit,  and  my  solitary 
room  is  filled  with  ruddy  lights  and  shadows 
of  the  fire. 

Of  human  notabilities  men  of  letters  are 
the  most  interesting,  and  this  arises  mainly 
from  their  outspokenness  as  a  class.  The 
writer  makes  himself  known  in  a  way  that 
no  other  man  makes  himself  known.  The 
distinguished  engineer  may  be  as  great  a 
man  as  the  distinguished  writer,  but  as  a 
rule  we  know  little  about  him.  We  see  him 
invent  a  locomotive,  or  bridge  a  strait,  but 
there  our  knowledge  stops ;  we  look  at  the 
engine,  we  walk  across  the  bridge,  we  ad- 
mire the  ingenuity  of  the  one,  we  are  grate- 
ful for  the  conveniency  of  the  other,  but 
to  our  apprehensions  the  engineer  is  unde- 
ciphered  all  the  while.  Doubtless  he  reveals 
himself  in  his  work  as  the  poet  reveals  him- 
self in  his  song,  but  then  this  revelation  is 
made  in  a  tongue  unknown  to  the  majority. 
After  all,  we  do  not  feel  that  we  get  nearer 
him.  The  man  of  letters,  on  the  other  hand, 
is  outspoken,   he   takes  you  into  his  confi- 


170  Men  of  Letters. 

dence,  he  keeps  no  secret  from  you.  Be 
you  beggar,  be  you  king,  you  are  welcome. 
He  is  no  respecter  of  persons.  He  gives 
without  reserve  his  foncies,  his  wit,  his  wis- 
dom ;  he  makes  you  a  present  of  all  that  the 
painful  or  the  happy  years  have  brought 
him.  The  writer  makes  his  reader  heir  in 
full.  Men  of  letters  are  a  peculiar  class. 
They  are  never  commonplace  or  prosaic  — 
at  least  those  of  them  that  mankind  care  for. 
They  are  airy,  wise,  gloomy,  melodious 
spirits.  They  give  us  the  language  we 
speak,  they  furnish  the  subjects  of  our  best 
talk.  They  are  full  of  generous  impulses 
and  sentiments,  and  keep  the  world  young. 
They  have  said  fine  things  on  every  phase 
of  human  experience.  The  air  is  full  of 
their  voices.  Their  books  are  the  world's 
holiday  and  playground,  and  into  these 
neither  care,  nor  the  dun,  nor  despondency 
can  follow  the  enfranchised  man.  Men  of 
letters  forerun  science  as  the  morning  star 
the  dawn.  Nothing  has  been  invented, 
nothing  has  been  achieved,  but  has  gleamed 
a  bright- coloured  Utopia  in  the  eyes  of  one 
or  the  other  of  these  men.  Several  cen- 
turies before  the  Great  Exhibition  of  1851 
rose  in  Hyde  Park,  a  wondrous  hall  of  glass 
stood,  radiant  in  sunlight,   in  the  verse  of 


Men  of  Letters.  171 

Chaucer.  The  electric  telegraph  is  not  so 
swift  as  the  flight  of  Puck.  We  have  not 
yet  realised  the  hippogriff  of  Ariosto.  Just 
consider  what  a  world  this  would  be  if  ruled 
by  the  best  thoughts  of  men  of  letters  !  Ig- 
norance would  die  at  once,  war  would  cease, 
taxation  would  be  lightened,  not  only  every 
Frenchman,  but  every  man  in  the  world, 
would  have  his  hen  in  the  pot.  May  would 
not  marry  January.  The  race  of  lawyers  and 
physicians  would  be  extinct.  Fancy  a  world 
the  affairs  of  which  are  directed  by  Goethe's 
wisdom  and  Goldsmith's  heart  !  In  such  a 
case,  methinks  the  millennium  were  already 
come.  Books  are  a  finer  world  within  the 
world.  With  books  are  connected  all  my 
desires  and  aspirations.  When  I  go  to  my 
long  sleep,  on  a  book  will  my  head  be  pil- 
lowed. I  care  for  no  other  fashion  of  great- 
ness. I'd  as  lief  not  be  remembered  at  all 
as  remembered  in  connection  with  anything 
else.  I  would  rather  be  Charles  Lamb  than 
Charles  XII.  I  would  rather  be  remem- 
bered by  a  song  than  by  a  victory.  I  would 
rather  build  a  fine  sonnet  than  have  built  St. 
Paul's.  I  would  rather  be  the  discoverer  of 
a  new  image  than  the  discoverer  of  a  new 
planet.  Fine  phrases  I  value  more  than 
bank  notes.     I  have  ear  for  no  other  har- 


172  Men  of  Letters. 

mony  than  the  harmony  of  words.  To  be 
occasionally  quoted  is  the  onlv  fame  I  care 
for. 

But  what  of  the  literary  life  ?  How  fares 
it  with  the  men  whose  days  and  nights 
are  devoted  to  the  writing  of  books?  We 
know  the  famous  men  of  letters ;  we  give 
them  the  highest  place  in  our  regards ;  we 
crown  them  with  laurels  so  thickly  that  we 
hide  the  furrows  on  their  foreheads.  Yet 
we  must  remember  that  there  are  men  of 
letters  who  have  been  equally  sanguine, 
equally  ardent,  who  have  pursued  perfection 
equally  unselfishly,  but  who  have  failed  to 
make  themselves  famous.  We  know  the 
ships  that  come  with  streaming  pennons 
into  the  immortal  ports;  we  know  but  little 
of  the  ships  that  have  gone  on  fire  on  the 
way  thither,  —  that  have  gone  down  at  sea. 
Even  with  successful  men  we  cannot  know 
precisely  how  matters  have  gone.  We  read 
the  fine  raptures  of  the  poet,  but  we  do  not 
know  into  what  kind  of  being  he  relapses 
when  the  inspiration  is  over,  any  more  than, 
seeing  and  hearing  the  lark  shrilling  at  the 
gate  of  heaven,  we  know  with  what  effort 
it  has  climbed  thither,  or  into  what  kind  of 
nest  it  must  descend.  The  lark  is  not  always 
singing ;  no  more  is  the  poet.     The  lark  is 


Men  of  Letters.  173 

only  interesting  while  singing ;  at  other 
times  it  is  but  a  plain  brown  bird.  We  may 
not  be  able  to  recognise  the  poet  when  he 
doffs  his  singing  robes  ;  he  may  then  sink  to 
the  level  of  his  admirers.  We  laugh  at  the 
fancies  of  the  humourists,  but  he  may  have 
written  his  brilliant  things  in  a  dismal 
enough  mood.  The  writer  is  not  continually 
dwelling  amongst  the  roses  and  lilies  of  life, 
he  is  not  continually  uttering  generous  sen- 
timents, and  saying  fine  things.  On  him,  as 
on  his  brethren,  the  world  presses  with  its 
prosaic  needs.  He  has  to  make  love  and 
marry,  and  run  the  usual  matrimonial  risks. 
The  income-tax  collector  visits  him  as  well 
as  others.  Around  his  head  at  Christmas- 
times  drives  a  snow-storm  of  bills.  He  must 
keep  the  wolf  from  the  door,  and  he  has 
only  his  goose-quills  to  confront  it  with. 
And  here  it  is,  having  to  deal  with  alien 
powers,  that  his  special  temperament  comes 
into  play,  and  may  work  him  evil.  Wit  is 
not  worldly  wisdom.  A  man  gazing  on  the 
stars  is  proverbially  at  the  mercy  of  the 
puddles  on  the  road.  A  man  may  be  able  to 
disentangle  intricate  problems,  be  able  to 
recall  the  past,  and  yet  be  cozened  by  an  or- 
dinary knave.  The  finest  expression  will 
not  liquidate  a  butcher's  account.     If  Apollo 


174  Men  of  Letters. 

puts  his  name  to  a  bill,  he  must  meet  it  when 
it  becomes  due,  or  go  into  the  gazette.  Ar- 
mies are  not  always  cheering  on  the  heights 
which  they  have  won ;  there  are  forced 
marches,  occasional  shortness  of  provisions, 
bivouacs  on  muddy  plains,  driving  in  of 
pickets,  and  the  like,  although  these  inglo- 
rious items  are  forgotten  when  we  read  the 
roll  of  victories  inscribed  on  their  banners. 
The  books  of  the  great  writer  are  only  por- 
tions of  the  great  writer.  His  life  acts  on 
his  writings ;  his  writings  react  on  his  life. 
His  life  may  impoverish  his  books ;  his 
books  may  impoverish  his  life. 

"  Apollo's  branch  that  might  have  grown  full 
straight," 

may  have  the  worm  of  a  vulgar  misery  gnaw- 
ing at  its  roots.  The  heat  of  inspiration  may 
be  subtracted  from  the  household  fire  ;  and 
those  who  sit  by  it  may  be  the  colder  in  con- 
sequence. A  man  may  put  all  his  good  things 
in  his  books,  and  leave  none  for  his  life,  just 
as  a  man  may  expend  his  fortune  on  a  splen- 
did dress,  and  carry  a  pang  of  hunger  be- 
neath it. 

There  are  few  less  exhilarating  books  than 
the  biographies  of  men  of  letters,  and  of 
artists  generally ;  and  this  arises  from  the 
pictures   of  comparative    defeat    which,    in 


Men  of  Letters.  175 

almost  every  instance,  such  books  contain. 
In  these  books  we  see  failure  more  or  less, 
—  seldom  clear,  victorious  effort.  If  the  art 
is  exquisite,  the  marble  is  flawed ;  if  the 
marble  is  pure,  there  is  defect  in  art.  There 
is  always  something  lacking  in  the  poem  ; 
there  is  always  irremediable  defect  in  the 
picture.  In  the  biography  we  see  persistent, 
passionate  effort,  and  almost  constant  re- 
pulse. If,  on  the  whole,  victory  is  gained, 
one  wing  of  the  army  has  been  thrown  into 
confusion.  In  the  life  of  a  successful  farmer, 
for  instance,  one  feels  nothing  of  this  kind ; 
his  year  flows  on  harmoniously,  fortunately; 
through  ploughing,  seed-time,  growth  of 
grain,  the  yellowing  of  it  beneath  meek 
autumn  suns  and  big  autumn  moons,  the 
cutting  of  it  down,  riotous  harvest-home, 
final  sale,  and  large  balanqe  at  the  banker's. 
From  the  point  of  view  of  almost  unvarying 
success  the  farmer's  life  becomes  beautiful, 
poetic.  Everything  is  an  aid  and  help  to  him. 
Nature  puts  her  shoulder  to  his  wheel.  He 
takes  the  winds,  the  clouds,  the  sunbeams, 
the  rolling  stars  into  partnership,  and,  ask- 
ing no  dividend,  they  let  him  retain  the  en- 
tire profits.  As  a  rule,  the  lives  of  men  of 
letters  do  not  flow  on  in  this  successful  way. 
In  their  case  there  is  always  either  defect  in 


176  Men  oj  Letters. 

the  soil  or  defect  in  the  husbandry.  Like 
the  Old  Guard  at  Waterloo,  they  are  fighting 
bravely  on  a  lost  field.  In  literary  biography 
there  is  always  an  element  of  tragedy,  and 
the  love  we  bear  the  dead  is  mingled  with 
pity.  Of  course  the  life  of  a  man  of  letters 
is  more  perilous  than  the  life  of  a  farmer; 
more  perilous  than  almost  any  other  kind  of 
life  which  it  is  given  a  human  being  to  con- 
duct. It  is  more  difficult  to  obtain  the 
mastery  over  spiritual  ways  and  means  than 
over  material  ones,  and  he  must  command 
both.  Properly  to  conduct  his  life  he  must 
not  only  take  large  crops  off  his  fields,  he 
must  also  leave  in  his  fields  the  capacity  of 
producing  large  crops.  It  is  easy  to  drive 
in  your  chariot  two  horses  of  one  breed; 
not  so  easy  when  the  one  is  of  terrestrial 
stock,  the  other  of  celestial ;  in  every  respect 
different  —  in  colour,  temper,  and  pace. 

At  the  outset  of  his  career,  the  man  of 
letters  is  confronted  by  the  fact  that  he  must 
live.  The  obtaining  of  a  livelihood  is  pre- 
liminary to  everything  else.  Poets  and  cob- 
blers are  placed  on  the  same  level  so  far.  If 
the  writer  can  barter  MSS.  for  sufficient  coin, 
he  may  proceed  to  develop  himself;  if  he 
cannot  so  barter  it,  there  is  a  speedy  end  of 
himself,  and  of  his  development  also.     Lit- 


Men  of  Letters.  177 

erature  has  become  a  profession  ;  but  it  is 
in  several  respects  different  from  the  pro- 
fessions by  which  other  human  beings  earn 
their  bread.  The  man  of  letters,  unlike  the 
clergyman,  the  physician,  or  the  lawyer,  has 
to  undergo  no  special  preliminary  training 
for  his  work,  and  while  engaged  in  it,  unlike 
the  professional  persons  named,  he  has  no 
accredited  status.  Of  course,  to  earn  any 
success,  he  must  start  with  as  much  special 
knowledge,  with  as  much  dexterity  in  his 
craft,  as  your  ordinary  physician  ;  but  then 
he  is  not  recognised  till  once  he  is  successful. 
When  a  man  takes  a  physician's  degree,  he 
has  done  something  ;  when  a  man  betakes 
himself  to  literary  pursuits,  he  has  done 
nothing  —  till  once  he  is  lucky  enough  to 
make  his  mark.  There  is  no  special  prelim- 
inary training  for  men  of  letters,  and  as  a 
consequence,  their  ranks  are  recruited  from 
the  vagrant  talent  of  the  world.  Men  that 
break  loose  from  the  professions,  who  stray 
from  the  beaten  tracks  of  life,  take  refuge 
in  literature.  In  it  are  to  be  found  doctors, 
lawyers,  clergymen,  and  the  motley  nation 
of  Bohemians.  Any  one  possessed  of  a  nim- 
ble brain,  a  quire  of  paper,  a  steel-pen  and 
ink-bottle,  can  start  business.  Any  one  who 
chooses  may  enter  the  lists,  and  no  questions 


£[1 


178  Men  of  Letters. 

are  asked  concerning  his  antecedents.  The 
battle  is  won  by  sheer  strength  of  brain. 
From  all  this  it  comes  that  the  man  of  letters 
has  usually  a  history  of  his  own  :  his  individ- 
uality is  more  pronounced  than  the  individ- 
uality of  other  men ;  he  has  been  knocked 
about  by  passion  and  circumstance.  All  his 
life  he  has  had  a  dislike  for  iron  rules  and 
common-place  maxims.  There  is  something 
of  the  gipsy  in  his  nature.  He  is  to  some 
extent  eccentric,  and  he  indulges  his  eccen- 
tricity. And  the  misfortunes  of  men  of  let- 
ters —  the  vulgar  and  patent  misfortunes,  I 
mean — arise  mainly  from  the  want  of  har- 
mony between  their  impulsiveness  and  vol- 
atility, and  the  staid  unmercurial  world  with 
which  they  are  brought  into  conflict.  They 
are  unconventional  in  a  world  of  conven- 
tions ;  they  are  fanciful,  and  are  constantly 
misunderstood  in  prosaic  relations.  They 
are  wise  enough  in  their  books,  for  there 
they  are  sovereigns,  and  can  shape  every- 
thing to  their  own  likings ;  out  of  their 
books,  they  are  not  unfrequently  extremely 
foolish,  for  they  exist  then  in  the  territory 
of  an  alien  power,  and  are  constantly  knock- 
ing their  heads  against  existing  orders  of 
things.  Men  of  letters  take  prosaic  men  out 
of  themselves ;  but  they  are  weak  where  the 


Men  of  Letters.  179 

prosaic  men  are  strong.  They  have  their 
own  way  in  the  world  of  ideas,  prosaic  men 
in  the  world  of  facts.  From  his  practical 
errors  the  writer  learns  something,  if  not 
always  humility  and  amendment.  A  memo- 
rial flower  grows  on  every  spot  where  he 
has  come  to  grief;  and  the  chasm  he  cannot 
over-leap  he  bridges  with  a  rainbow. 

But  the  man  of  letters  has  not  only  to  live, 
he  has  to  develop  himself;  and  his  earning 
of  money  and  his  intellectual  development 
should  proceed  simultaneously  and  in  pro- 
portionate degrees.  Herein  lies  the  main 
difificulty  of  the  literary  life.  Out  of  his 
thought  the  man  must  bring  fire,  food,  cloth- 
ing; and  fire,  food,  clothing  must  in  their 
turns  subserve  thought.  It  is  necessary, 
for  the  proper  conduct  of  such  a  life,  that 
while  the  balance  at  the  banker's  increases, 
intellectual  resource  should  increase  at  the 
same  ratio.  Progress  should  not  be  made  in 
the  faculty  of  expression  alone,  —  progress 
at  the  same  time  should  be  made  in  thought ; 
for  thought  is  the  material  on  which  expres- 
sion feeds.  Should  sufficient  advance  not  be 
made  in  this  last  direction,  in  a  short  time 
the  man  feels  that  he  has  expressed  himself, 
—  that  now  he  can  only  more  or  less  dexter- 
ously repeat  himself,  —  more  or  less  prettily 


i8o  Men  of  Letters. 

become  his  own  echo.  It  is  comparatively 
easy  to  acquire  facility  in  writing ;  but  it  is 
an  evil  thing  for  the  man  of  letters  when 
such  facility  is  the  only  thing  he  has  ac- 
quired, —  when  it  has  been,  perhaps,  the  only 
thing  he  has  striven  to  acquire.  Such  mis- 
calculation of  ways  and  means  suggests 
vulgarity  of  aspiration,  and  a  fatal  material 
taint.  In  the  life  in  which  this  error  has 
been  committed  there  can  be  no  proper 
harmony,  no  satisfaction,  no  spontaneous 
delight  in  effort.  The  man  does  not  create, 
—  he  is  only  desperately  keeping  up  appear- 
ances. He  has  at  once  become  "  a  base 
mechanical,"  and  his  successes  are  not  much 
higher  than  the  successes  of  the  acrobat  or 
the  rope-dancer.  This  want  of  proper  rela- 
tionship between  resources  of  expression  and 
resources  of  thought,  or  subject-matter  for 
expression,  is  common  enough,  and  some 
slight  suspicion  of  it  flashes  across  the  mind 
at  times  in  reading  even  the  best  authors. 
It  lies  at  the  bottom  of  every  catastrophe  in 
the  literary  life.  Frequently  a  man's  first 
book  is  good,  and  all  his  after  productions 
but  faint  and  yet  fainter  reverberations  of 
the  first.  The  men  who  act  thus  are  in  the 
long  run  deserted  like  worked-out  mines.  A 
man  reaches  his  limits  as  to   thought  long 


Men  of  Letters.  i8i 

before  he  reaches  his  Hmits  as  to  expression ; 
and  a  haunting  suspicion  of  this  is  one  of 
the  pecuUar  bitters  of  the  hterary  Ufe.  Haz- 
litt  tells  us  that,  after  one  of  his  early  inter- 
views with  Coleridge,  he  sat  down  to  his 
Essay  on  the  Natural  Disinterestedness  of 
the  Human  Mind.  "  I  sat  down  to  the  task 
shortly  afterwards  for  the  twentieth  time, 
got  new  pens  and  paper,  determined  to  make 
clean  work  of  it,  wrote  a  few  sentences  in 
the  skeleton  style  of  a  mathematical  demon- 
stration, stopped  half-way  down  the  second 
page,  and,  after  trying  in  vain  to  pump  up 
any  words,  images,  notions,  apprehensions, 
facts,  or  observations,  from  that  gulf  of  ab- 
straction in  which  I  had  plunged  myself  for 
four,  or  five  years  preceding,  gave  up  the 
attempt  as  labour  in  vain,  and  shed  tears  of 
hopeless  despondency  on  the  blank  unfin- 
ished paper.  I  can  write  fast  enough  now. 
Am  I  better  than  I  was  then?  oh,  no  !  One 
truth  discovered,  one  pang  of  regret  at  not 
being  able  to  express  it,  is  worth  all  the 
fluency  and  flippancy  in  the  world."  This 
regretful  looking  back  to  the  past,  when 
emotions  were  keen  and  sharp,  and  when 
thought  wore  the  novel  dress  of  a  stranger, 
and  this  dissatisfaction  with  the  acquire- 
ments of    the   present,  is  common  enough 


i82  Meti  of  Letters. 

with  the  man  of  letters.  The  years  have 
come  and  gone,  and  he  is  conscious  that  he 
is  not  intrinsically  richer,  —  he  has  only 
learned  to  assort  and  display  his  riches  to 
advantage.  His  wares  have  neither  increased 
in  (luantily  nor  improved  in  quality,  —  he  has 
only  procured  a  window  in  a  leading  thor- 
oughfare. He  can  catch  his  butterflies  more 
cunningly,  he  can  pin  them  on  his  cards  more 
skilfully,  but  their  wings  are  fingered  and 
tawdry  compared  with  the  time  when  they 
winnowed  before  him  in  the  sunshine  over 
the  meadows  of  youth.  This  species  of 
regret  is  peculiar  to  the  class  of  which  I  am 
speaking,  and  they  often  discern  failure  in 
what  the  world  counts  success.  The  veteran 
does  not  look  back  to  the  time  when  he 
was  in  the  awkward  squad  ;  the  accountant 
does  not  sigh  over  the  time  when  he  was 
bewildered  by  the  mysteries  of  double- entry. 
And  the  reason  is  obvious.  The  dexterity 
which  time  and  practice  have  brought  to  the 
soldier  and  the  accountant  is  pure  gain  :  the 
dexterity  of  expression  which  time  and  prac- 
tice have  brought  to  the  writer  is  gain  too, 
in  its  way,  but  not  quite  so  pure.  It  may 
have  been  cultivated  and  brought  to  its  de- 
gree of  excellence  at  the  expense  of  higher 
things.     The  man  of  letters  lives  by  thought 


Men  of  Letters.  183 

and  expression,  and  his  two  powers  may  not 
be  perfectly  balanced.  And,  putting  aside 
its  effect  on  the  reader,  and  through  that, 
on  the  writer's  pecuniary  prosperity,  the 
tragedy  of  want  of  equipoise  lies  in  this. 
When  the  writer  expresses  his  thought,  it  is 
immediately  dead  to  him,  however  life-giving 
it  may  be  to  others ;  he  pauses  midway  in 
his  career,  he  looks  back  over  his  uttered 
past — brown  desert  to  him,  in  which  there 
is  no  sustenance  —  he  looks  forward  to  the 
green  ?^;mttered  future,  and  beholding  its 
narrow  limits,  knows  it  is  all  that  he  can  call 
his  own,  —  on  that  vivid  strip  he  must  pas- 
ture his  intellectual  life. 

Is  the  literary  life,  on  the  whole,  a  happy 
one?  Granted  that  the  writer  is  productive, 
that  he  possesses  abundance  of  material, 
that  he  has  secured  the  ear  of  the  world, 
one  is  inclined  to  fancy  that  no  life  could 
be  happier.  Such  a  man  seems  to  live  on 
the  finest  of  the  wheat.  If  a  poet,  he  is 
continually  singing;  if  a  novelist,  he  is 
supreme  in  his  ideal  world ;  if  a  humourist, 
everything  smiles  back  upon  his  smile ;  if 
an  essayist,  he  is  continually  saying  the 
wisest,  most  memorable  things.  He  breathes 
habitually  the  serener  air  which  ordinary 
mortals  can  only  at  intervals  respire,  and  in 


184  Men  of  Letters. 

their  happiest  moments.  Such  concep- 
tions of  great  writers  are  to  some  extent 
erroneous.  Through  the  medium  of  their 
books  we  know  them  only  in  their  active 
mental  states,  —  in  their  triumphs  ;  we  do 
not  see  them  when  sluggishness  has  suc- 
ceeded the  effort  which  was  delight.  The 
statue  does  not  come  to  her  white  limbs  all 
at  once.  It  is  the  bronze  wrestler,  not  the 
flesh  and  blood  one,  that  stands  forever  over 
a  fallen  adversary  with  pride  of  victory  on 
his  face.  Of  the  labour,  the  weariness,  the 
self-distrust,  the  utter  despondency  of  the 
great  writer,  we  know  nothing.  Then,  for 
the  attainment  of  mer?  happiness  or  content- 
ment, any  high  faculty  of  imagination  is  a 
questionable  help.  Of  course  imagination 
lights  the  torch  of  joy,  it  deepens  the  car- 
mine on  the  sleek  cheek  of  the  girl,  it  makes 
wine  sparkle,  makes  music  speak,  gives  rays 
to  the  rising  sun.  But  in  all  its  supreme 
sweetnesses  there  is  a  perilous  admixture 
of  deceit,  which  is  suspected  even  at  the 
moment  when  the  senses  tingle  keenliest. 
And  it  must  be  remembered  that  this  potent 
faculty  can  darken  as  well  as  brighten.  It 
is  the  very  soul  of  pain.  While  the  trumpets 
are  blowing  in  Ambition's  ear,  it  whispers 
of   the  grave.      It   drapes  Death  in  austere 


Men  of  Letters.  185 

solemnities,  and  surrounds  him  with  a 
gloomy  court  of  terrors.  The  life  of  the 
imaginative  man  is  never  a  commonplace 
one  :  his  lights  are  brighter,  his  glooms  are 
darker,  than  the  lights  and  gloom  of  the 
vulgar.  His  ecstasies  are  as  restless  as  his 
pains.  The  great  writer  has  this  perilous 
faculty  in  excess ;  and  through  it  he  will,  as 
a  matter  of  course,  draw  out  of  the  atmos- 
phere of  circumstance  surrounding  him  the 
keenness  of  pleasure  and  pain.  To  my  own 
notion,  the  best  gifts  of  the  gods  are  neither 
the  most  glittering  nor  the  most  admired. 
These  gifts  I  take  to  be,  a  moderate  am- 
bition, a  taste  for  repose  with  circumstances 
favourable  thereto,  a  certain  mildness  of  pas- 
sion, an  even-beating  pulse,  an  even-beating 
heart.  I  do  not  consider  heroes  and  cele- 
brated persons  the  happiest  of  mankind.  I 
do  not  envy  Alexander  the  shouting  of  his 
armies,  nor  Dante  his  laurel  wreath.  Even 
were  I  able,  I  would  not  purchase  these  at 
the  prices  the  poet  and  the  warrior  paid. 
So  far,  then,  as  great  writers  —  great  poets, 
especially  —  are  of  imagination  all  compact 
—  a  peculiarity  of  mental  constitution  which 
makes  a  man  go  shares  with  every  one  he 
is  brought  into  contact  with ;  which  makes 
him    enter    into   Romeo's   rapture  when   he 


1 86  Men  of  Letters. 

touches  Juliet's  cheek  among  cypresses 
silvered  by  the  Verona  moonlight,  and  the 
stupor  of  the  blinded  and  pinioned  wretch 
on  the  scaffold  before  the  bolt  is  drawn  — 
so  far  as  this  special  gift  goes,  I  do  not 
think  the  great  poet,  —  and  by  virtue  of 
it  he  is  a  poet,  —  is  likely  to  be  happier  than 
your  more  ordinary  mortal.  On  the  whole, 
perhaps,  it  is  the  great  readers  rather  than 
the  great  wTiters  who  are  entirely  to  be  en- 
vied. They  pluck  the  fruits,  and  are  spared 
the  trouble  of  rearing  them.  Prometheus 
filched  fire  from  heaven,  and  had  for  reward 
the  crag  of  Caucasus,  the  chain,  the  vulture  ; 
while  they  for  whom  he  stole  it  cook  their 
suppers  upon  it,  stretch  out  benumbed  hands 
towards  it,  and  see  its  light  reflected  in  their 
children's  faces.  They  are  comfortable  :  he, 
roofed  by  the  keen  crystals  of  the  stars, 
groans  above. 

Trifles  make  up  the  happiness  or  the 
misery  of  mortal  life.  The  majority  of  men 
slip  into  their  graves  without  having  en- 
countered on  their  way  thither  any  signal 
catastrophe  or  exaltation  of  fortune  or  feel- 
ing. Collect  a  thousand  ignited  sticks  into 
a  heap,  and  you  have  a  bonfire  which  may 
be  seen  over  three  counties.  If,  during 
thirty  years,  the  annoyances  connected  with 


Men  of  Letters.  187 

shirt- buttons  found  missing  when  you  are 
hurriedly  dressing  for  dinner,  were  gathered 
into  a  mass  and  endured  at  once,  it  would  be 
misery  equal  to  a  pubhc  execution.  If,  from 
the  same  space  of  time,  all  the  little  titilla- 
tions  of  a  man's  vanity  were  gathered  into 
one  lump  of  honey  and  enjoyed  at  once,  the 
pleasure  of  being  crowned  would  not  per- 
haps be  much  greater.  If  the  equanimity 
of  an  ordinary  man  be  at  the  mercy  of  trifles, 
how  much  more  will  the  equanimity  of  the 
man  of  letters,  who  is  usually  the  most  sen- 
sitive of  the  race,  and  whose  peculiar  avoca- 
tion makes  sad  work  with  the  fine  tissues  of 
the  nerves.  Literary  composition  is,  I  take 
it,  with  the  exception  of  the  crank,  in  which 
there  is  neither  hope  nor  result,  the  most 
exhausting  to  which  a  human  being  can 
apply  himself.  Just  consider  the  situation. 
Here  is  your  man  of  letters,  tender-hearted 
as  Cowper,  who  would  not  count  upon  his 
list  of  friends  the  man  who  tramples  heed- 
lessly upon  a  worm ;  as  light  of  sleep  and 
abhorrent  of  noise  as  Beattie,  who  denounces 
chanticleer  for  his  lusty  proclamation  of 
morning  to  his  own  and  the  neighbouring 
farmyards  in  terms  that  would  be  unmeas- 
ured if  applied  to  Nero  ;  as  alive  to  blame  as 
Byron,  who  declared  that  the  praise  of  the 


1 88  Me?i  of  Letters. 

greatest  of  the  race  could  not  take  the  sting 
from  the  censure  of  the  meanest.  Fancy 
the  sufferings  of  a  creature  so  built  and 
strung  in  a  world  which  creaks  so  vilely  on 
its  hinges  as  this  !  Will  such  a  man  con- 
front a  dun  with  an  imperturbable  coun- 
tenance? Will  he  throw  himself  back  in 
his  chair  and  smile  blandly  when  his  cham- 
ber is  lanced  through  and  through  by  the 
notes  of  a  street  bagpiper?  When  his 
harrassed  brain  should  be  solaced  by  music, 
will  he  listen  patiently  to  stupid  remarks? 
I  fear  not.  The  man  of  letters  suffers  keen- 
lier  than  people  suspect  from  sharp,  cruel 
noises,  from  witless  observations,  from  social 
misconceptions  of  him  of  every  kind,  from 
hard  utilitarian  wisdom,  and  from  his  own 
good  things  going  to  the  grave  unrecognised 
and  unhonoured.  And,  forced  to  live  by  his 
pen,  to  extract  from  his  brain  bread  and 
beer,  clothing,  lodging,  and  income-tax,  I 
am  not  surprised  that  he  is  oftentimes  ner- 
vous, querulous,  impatient.  \\  Thinking  of 
these  things,  I  do  not  wonder  at  Hazlitt's 
spleen,  at  Charles  Lamb's  punch,  at  Cole- 
ridge's opium.  I  think  of  the  days  spent  in 
writing,  and  of  the  nights  which  repeat  the 
day  in  dream,  and  in  which  there  is  no  re- 
freshment.     I  think  of  the  brain  which  must 


Men  of  Letters.  189 

be  worked  out  at  length  ;  of  Scott,  when  the 
vviind  of  the  enchanter  was  broken,  writing 
poor  romances  ;  of  Southey  sitting  vacantly 
in  his  library,  and  drawing  a  feeble  satisfac- 
tion from  the  faces  of  his  books.  ^'  And  for 
the  man  of  letters  there  is  more  than  the 
mere  labour :  he  writes  his  book,  and  has 
frequently  the  mortification  of  seeing  it  neg- 
lected or  torn  to  pieces.  Above  all  men,  he 
longs  for  sympathy,  recognition,  applause. 
He  respects  his  fellow-creatures,  because  he 
beholds  in  him  a  possible  reader.  To  write 
a  book,^to  send  it  forth  to  the  world  and  the 
critics,  is  to  a  sensitive  person  like- plunging 
mother-naked  into  tropic  waters  where 
sharks  abound.  It  is  true  that,  like  death, 
the  terror  of  criticism  lives  most  in  appre- 
hension ;  still,  to  have  been  frequently 
criticised,  and  to  be  constantly  liable  to  it, 
are  disagreeable  items  in  a  man's  life.  Most 
men  endure  criticism  with  commendable 
fortitude,  just  as  most  criminals  when  under 
the  drop  conduct  themselves  with  calmness. 
They  bleed,  but  they  bleed  inwardly.  To  be 
flayed  in  the  Saturday  Revietv,  for  instance, 
—  a  whole  amused  public  looking  on,  —  is  far 
from  pleasant ;  and,  after  the  operation,  the 
ordinary  annoyances  of  life  probably  mag- 
nify   themselves    into    tortures.     The    grass- 


iQO  Men  of  Letters. 

hopper  becomes  a  burden.  Touch  a  flayed 
man  ever  so  Hghtly,  and  with  ever  so  kindly 
an  intention,  and  he  is  sure  to  wince.  The 
skin  of  the  man  of  letters  is  peculiarly  sensi- 
tive to  the  bite  of  the  critical  mosquito  ;  and 
he  lives  in  a  climate  in  which  such  mosqui- 
toes swarm.  He  is  seldom  stabbed  to  the 
heart  —  he  is  often  killed  by  pin-pricks. 

But,  to  leave  palisade  and  outwork,  and 
come  to  the  interior  of  the  citadel,  it  may  be 
said  that  great  writers,  although  they  must 
ever  remain  shining  objects  of  regard  to  us, 
are  not  exempted  from  ordinary  limitations 
and  conditions.  They  are  cabined,  cribbed, 
confined,  even  as  their  more  prosaic  breth- 
ren. It  is  in  the  nature  of  every  man  to  be 
endued  with  that  he  works  in.  Thus,  in 
course  of  time,  the  merchant  becomes  bound 
up  in  his  ventures  and  his  ledger ;  an  indefi- 
nable flavour  of  the  pharmacopoeia  lingers 
about  the  physician ;  the  bombasine  and 
horse-hair  of  the  lawyer  eat  into  his  soul  — 
his  experiences  are  docketed  in  a  clerkly 
hand,  bound  together  with  red  tape,  and  put 
away  in  professional  pigeon-holes.  A  man 
naturally  becomes  leavened  by  the  profes- 
sion which  he  has  adopted.  He  thinks, 
speaks,  and  dreams  "  shop,"  as  the  colloquial 
phrase  has  it.     Men  of  letters  are  affected 


Men  of  Letters.  191 

by  their  profession  just  as  merchants,  physi- 
cians, and  lawyers  are.  In  course  of  time 
the  inner  man  becomes  stained  with  ink, 
lilce  blotting-paper.  The  agriculturist  talks 
constantly  of  bullocks  —  the  man  of  letters 
constantly  of  books.  The  printing-press 
seems  constantly  in  his  immediate  neighbour- 
hood. He  is  stretched  on  the  rack  of  an 
unfavourable  review,  —  he  is  lapped  in  the 
Elysium  of  a  new  edition.  The  narrowing 
effect  of  a  profession  is  in  every  man  a  defect, 
albeit  an  inevitable  one.  Byron,  who  had  a 
larger  amount  of  common  sense  than  any 
poet  of  his  day,  tells  us,  in  ''  Beppo," 

"  One  hates  an  author  that's  all  author  ;  fellows 
In  foolscap  uniforms  turn'd  up  with  ink." 

And  his  lordship's  "  hate  "  in  the  matter  is 
understandable  enough.  In  his  own  day, 
Scott  and  himself  were  almost  the  only  dis- 
tinguished authors  who  were  not  "all  au- 
thors," just  as  Mr.  Helps  and  Sir  Edward 
Bulwer  Lytton  are  almost  the  only  repre- 
sentatives of  the  class  in  ours.  This  pro- 
fessional taint  not  only  resides  in  the  writer, 
impairing  his  fulness  and  completion;  it 
flows  out  of  him  into  his  work,  and  impairs 
it  also.  It  is  the  professional  character 
which  authorship  has  assumed  which  has 
taken     individuality    and    personal    flavour 


1 9  2  Men  of  Letters. 

from  so  much  of  our  writing,  and  prevented 
to  a  large  extent  tlie  production  of  enduring 
books.  Our  writing  is  done  too  hurriedly, 
and  to  serve  a  purpose  too  immediate.  Lit- 
erature is  not  so  much  an  art  as  a  manufac- 
ture. There  is  a  demand,  and  too  many  crops 
are  taken  off  the  soil ;  it  is  never  allowed  to 
lie  fallow,  and  to  nourish  itself  in  peaceful- 
ness  and  silence.  When  so  many  cups  are 
to  be  filled,  too  much  water  is  certain  to  be 
put  into  the  teapot.  Letters  have  become  a 
profession,  and  probably  of  all  professions 
it  is,  in  the  long  run,  the  least  conducive  to 
personal  happiness.  It  is  the  most  preca- 
rious. In  it,  above  all  others,  to  be  weak  is 
to  be  miserable.  It  is  the  least  mechanical, 
consequently  the  most  exhausting ;  and  in 
its  higher  walks  it  deals  with  a  man's  most 
vital  material  —  utilises  his  emotions,  trades 
on  his  faculties  of  love  and  imagination,  uses 
for  its  own  purposes  the  human  heart  by 
which  he  lives.  These  things  a  man  requires 
for  himself;  and  when  they  are  in  a  large 
proportion  transported  to  an  ideal  world, 
they  make  the  ideal  world  all  the  more  bril- 
liant and  furnished,  and  leave  his  ordinary 
existence  all  the  more  arid  and  common- 
place. You  cannot  spend  money  and  have 
it ;  you   cannot  use  emotion  and  possess  it. 


Men  of  Letters.  193 

The  poet  who  sings  loudly  of  love  and  love's 
delights,  may  in  the  ordinary  intercourse  of 
life  be  all  the  colder  for  his  singing.  The 
man  who  has  been  moved  while  describing 
an  imaginary  death- bed  to-day,  is  all  the 
more  likely  to  be  unmoved  while  stand- 
ing by  his  friend's  grave  to-morrow.  Shak- 
speare,  after  emerging  from  the  moonlight 
in  the  Verona  orchard,  and  Romeo  and 
Juliet's  silvery  interchange  of  vows,  was,  I 
fear  me,  not  marv^ellously  enamoured  of  the 
autumn  on  Ann  Hathaway's  cheek.  It  is  in 
some  such  way  as  this  that  a  man's  books 
may  impoverish  his  life  ;  that  the  fire  and 
heat  of  his  genius  may  make  his  hearth  all 
the  colder.  From  considerations  like  these, 
one  can  explain  satisfactorily  enough  to 
one's  self  the  domestic  misadventures  of 
men  of  letters  —  of  poets  especially.  We 
know  the  poets  only  in  their  books ;  their 
wives  know  them  out  of  them.  Their  wives 
see  the  other  side  of  the  moon ;  and  we 
have  been  made  pretty  well  aware  how 
they  have  appreciated  that. 

The  man  engaged  in  the  writing  of  books 
is  tempted  to  make  such  writing  the  be-all 
and  end-all  of  his  existence  —  to  grow  his 
literature  out  of  his  history,  experience,  or 
observation,  as  the  gardener  grows  out  of 
13 


194  ^^<^f^  of  Letters. 

soils  brought  from  a  distance  the  plants 
which  he  intends  to  exhibit.  The  cup  of  life 
foams  fiercely  over  into  first  books  ;  materials 
for  the  second,  third,  and  fourth  must  be 
carefully  sought  for.  The  man  of  letters,  as 
time  passes  on,  and  the  professional  impulse 
works  deeper,  ceases  to  regard  the  world 
with  a  single  eye.  The  man  slowly  merges 
into  the  artist.  He  values  new  emotions 
and  experiences,  because  he  can  turn_  these 
into  artistic  shapes.  He  plucks  "  copy  " 
from  rising  and  setting  suns.  He  sees 
marketable  pathos  in  his  friend's  death-bed. 
He  carries  the  peal  of  his  daughter's  mar- 
riage-bells into  his  sentences  or  his  rhymes  ; 
and  in  these  the  music  sounds  sweeter  to 
him  than  in  the  sunshine  and  the  wind.  If 
originally  of  a  meditative,  introsi)ective  mood, 
his  profession  can  hardly  fail  to  confirm  and 
deepen  his  peculiar  temperament.  He  be- 
gins to  feel  his  own  pulse  curiously,  and  for 
a  purpose.  As  a  spy  in  the  service  of  litera- 
ture, he  lives  in  the  world  and  its  concerns. 
Out  of  everything  he  seeks  thoughts  and 
images,  as  out  of  everything  the  bee  seeks 
wax  and  honey.  A  curious  instance  of  this 
mode  of  looking  at  things  occurs  in  Goethe's 
"  Letters  from  Italy,"  with  whom,  indeed,  it 
was  fashion,  and  who  helped  himself  out  of 


Men  of  Letters.  195 

the  teeming  world  to  more  effect  than  any 
man  of  his  time  :  — 

"  From  Botzen  to  Trent  the  stage  is  nine 
leagues,  and  runs  through  a  valley  which 
constantly  increases  in  fertility.  All  that 
merely  struggles  into  vegetation  on  the 
higher  mountains  has  here  more  strength 
and  vitality.  The  sun  shines  with  warmth, 
and  there  is  once  more  belief  in  a  Deity. 

"  A  poor  woman  cried  out  to  me  to  take 
her  child  into  my  vehicle,  as  the  soil  was 
burning  its  feet.  I  did  her  this  service  out 
of  honour  to  the  strong  light  of  Heaven. 
The  child  was  strangely  decked  out,  but  I 
could  get  nothing  fro7n  it  in  any  way." 

It  is  clear  that  out  of  all  this  the  reader 
gains ;  but  I  cannot  help  thinking  that  for 
the  writer  it  tends  to  destroy  entire  and 
simple  living  —  all  hearty  and  final  enjoy- 
ment in  life.  Joy  and  sorrow,  death  and 
marriage,  the  comic  circumstance  and  the 
tragic,  what  befalls  him,  what  he  observes, 
what  he  is  brought  into  contact  with,  do  not 
affect  him  as  they  affect  other  men  ;  they  are 
secrets  to  be  rifled,  stones  to  be  built  with, 
clays  to  be  moulded  into  artistic  shape.  In 
giving  emotional  material  artistic  form,  there 
is  indisputably  a  certain  noble  pleasure  ;  but 
it  is  of  a  solitary  and  severe  complexion,  and 


196  Men  of  Lef/crs. 

takes  a  man  out  of  the  circle  and  sympathies 
of  his  fellows.  I  do  not  say  that  this  kind  of 
life  makes  a  man  selfish,  but  it  often  makes 
him  see/n  so  ;  and  the  results  of  this  seeming, 
on  friendship  and  the  domestic  relationships, 
for  instance,  are  as  baleful  as  if  selfishness 
really  existed.  The  peculiar  temptation 
which  besets  men  of  letters,  the  curious 
playing  with  thought  and  emotion,  the  ten- 
dency to  analyse  and  take  everything  to 
pieces,  has  two  results,  and  neither  aids  his 
happiness  nor  even  his  literary  success.  On 
the  one  hand,  and  in  relation  to  the  social 
relations,  it  gives  him  somewhat  of  an  icy 
aspect,  and  so  breaks  the  spring  and  eager- 
ness of  affectionate  response.  For  the  best 
affection  is  shy,  reticent,  undemonstrative, 
and  needs  to  be  drawn  out  by  its  like.  If 
unrecognised,  like  an  acquaintance  on  the 
street,  it  passes  by,  making  no  sign,  and  is 
for  the  time  being  a  stranger.  On  the  other 
hand,  the  desire  to  say  a  fine  thing  about  a 
phenomenon,  whether  natural  or  moral,  pre- 
vents a  man  from  reaching  the  inmost  core 
of  the  phenomenon.  Entrance  into  these 
matters  will  never  be  obtained  by  the  most 
sedulous  seeking.  The  man  who  has  found 
an  entrance  cannot  tell  how  he  came  there, 
and   he  will  never  find  his  way  back  again 


Men  of  Letters.  197 

by  the  same  road.  From  this  law  arises  all 
the  dreary  conceits  and  artifices  of  the  poets  ; 
it  is  through  the  operation  of  the  same  law 
that  many  of  our  simple  songs  and  ballads 
are  inexpressibly  affecting,  because  in  them 
there  is  no  consciousness  of  authorship ; 
emotion  and  utterance  are  twin  born,  con- 
sentaneous —  like  sorrow  and  tears,  a  blow 
and  its  pain,  a  kiss  and  its  thrill.  When  a 
man  is  happy,  every  effort  to  express  his 
happiness  mars  its  completeness.  I  am  not 
happy  at  all  unless  I  am  happier  than  I 
know.  When  the  tide  is  full  there  is  silence 
in  channel  and  creek.  The  silence  of  the 
lover  when  he  clasps  the  maid  is  better  than 
the  passionate  murmur  of  the  song  which 
celebrates  her  charms.  If  to  be  near  the 
rose  makes  the  nightingale  tipsy  with  delight, 
what  must  it  be  to  be  the  rose  herself?  One 
feeling  of  the  "wild  joys  of  living — the 
leaping  from  rock  to  rock,"  is  better  than 
the  "  muscular-Christianity  "  literature  which 
our  time  has  produced.  I  am  afraid  that  the 
profession  of  letters  interferes  with  the  ele- 
mental feelings  of  life  ;  and  I  am  afraid,  too, 
that  in  the  majority  of  cases  this  interference 
is  not  justified  by  its  results.  The  entireness 
and  simplicity  of  life  is  flawed  by  the  intru- 
sion of  an   inquisitive  element,  and  this  in- 


198  Men  of  Letters. 

quisitive  element  never  yet  found  anything 
which  was  much  worth  the  finding.  Men 
Hve  by  the  primal  energies  of  love,  faith, 
imagination  ;  and  happily  it  is  not  given  to 
every  one  to  hve,  in  the  pecuniary  sense,  by 
the  artistic  utilisation  and  sale  of  these. 
You  cannot  make  ideas ;  they  must  come 
unsought  if  they  come  at  all. 

"  From  pastoral  graves  extracting  thoughts  divine  " 

is  a  profitable  occupation  enough,  if  you 
stumble  on  the  little  churchyard  covered 
over  with  silence,  and  folded  among  the  hills. 
If  you  go  to  the  churchyard  with  intent  to 
procure  thought,  as  you  go  into  the  woods 
to  gather  anemones,  you  are  wasting  your 
time.  Thoughts  must  come  naturally,  like 
wild  flowers ;  they  cannot  be  forced  in  a 
hot-bed  —  even  although  aided  by  the  leaf- 
mould  of  your  past  —  like  exotics.  And  it 
is  the  misfortune  of  men  of  letters  of  our 
day  that  they  cannot  aff"ord  to  wait  for  this 
natural  flowering  of  thought,  but  are  driven 
to  the  forcing  process,  with  the  results  which 
were  to  be  expected. 


/\UtX/\r4Dl^l^     SNIITI-I. 


i^felF%-^HE  present  writer  remembers  to 
it-|4|yVp  h:ive  been  visited  once  by  a 
vJjUjI^*;^:  strange  feeling  of  puzzlement ; 
,^^fc^?f(^!  and  the  puzzled  feeling  arose 
out  of  the  following  circumstance  :  —  He 
was  seated  in  a  railway-carriage,  five  min- 
utes or  so  before  starting,  and  had  time  to 
contemplate  certain  waggons  or  trucks  filled 
with  cattle,  drawn  up  on  a  parallel  line,  and 
quite  close  to  the  window  at  which  he  sat. 
The  cattle  wore  a  much-enduring  aspect ; 
and,  as  he  looked  into  their  large,  patient, 
melancholy  eyes,  —  for,  as  before  mentioned, 
there  was  no  space  to  speak  of  intervening, 
—  the  feeling  of  puzzlement  alluded  to  arose 
in  his  mind.  And  it  consisted  in  an  attempt 
to  solve  the  existence  before  him,  to  enter 
into  it,  to  understand  it,  and  his  inability  to 
accomplish  it,  or  indeed  to  make  any  way 
toward  the  accomplishment  of  it.  The 
much-enduring  animals  in  the  trucks  oppo- 


200  On  the  Importance  of 

site  had  unquestionably  some  rude  twilight 
of  a  notion  of  a  world  ;  of  objects  they  had 
some  unknown  cognisance ;  but  he  could 
get  behind  the  melancholy  eye  within  a  yard 
of  him,  and  look  through  it.  How,  from 
that  window,  the  world  shaped  itself,  he 
could  not  discover,  could  not  even  fancy ; 
and  yet,  staring  on  the  animals,  he  was  con- 
scious of  a  certain  fascination  in  which  there 
lurked  an  element  of  terror.  These  wild, 
unkempt  brutes,  with  slavering  muzzles, 
penned  together,  lived,  could  choose  be- 
tween this  thing  and  the  other,  could  be 
frightened,  could  be  enraged,  could  even 
love  or  hate ;  and  gazing  into  a  placid, 
heavy  countenance,  and  the  depths  of  a 
patient  eye,  not  a  yard  away,  he  was  con- 
scious of  an  obscure  and  shuddering  recog- 
nition, of  a  life  akin  so  far  with  his  own. 
But  to  enter  into  that  life  imaginatively,  and 
to  conceive  it,  he  found  impossible.  P2ye 
looked  upon  eye,  but  the  one  could  not  flash 
recognition  on  the  other ;  and,  thinking  of 
this,  he  remembers,  with  what  a  sense  of 
ludicrous  horror,  the  idea  came,  —  what,  if 
looking  on  one  another  thus,  some  spark  of 
recognition  could  be  elicited  ;  if  some  rudi- 
ment of  thought  could  be  detected  ;  if  there 
were  indeed  a  point  at  which   man  and  ox 


a  Man  to  Hun  self.  201 

could  not  compare  notes?  Suppose  some 
gleam  or  scintillation  of  humour  had  lighted 
up  the  unwinking,  amber  eye  ?  Heavens, 
the  bellow  of  the  weaning  calf  would  be 
pathetic,  shoe-leather  would  be  forsworn, 
the  eating  of  roast  meat,  hot  or  cold,  would 
be  cannibalism,  the  terrified  world  would 
make  a  sudden  dash  into  vegetarianism  ! 
Happily  before  fancy  had  time  to  play 
another  vagary,  with  a  snort  and  pull  the 
train  moved  on,  and  my  truckful  of  horned 
friends  were  left  gazing  into  empty  space, 
with  the  same  wistful,  patient,  and  melan- 
choly expression  with  w'hich,  for  the  space  of 
five  minutes  or  so,  they  had  surveyed  and  be- 
wildered me. 

A  similar  feeling  of  puzzlement  to  that 
which  I  have  indicated,  besets  one  not  un- 
frequently  in  the  contemplation  of  men  and 
women.  You  are  brought  in  contact  with  a 
person,  you  attempt  to  comprehend  him,  to 
enter  into  him,  in  a  word  to  be  him,  and,  if 
you  are  utterly  foiled  in  the  attempt,  you 
cannot  flatter  yourself  that  you  have  been 
successful  to  the  measure  of  your  desire.  A 
person  interests,  or  piques,  or  tantalises  you, 
you  do  your  best  to  make  him  out ;  yet  strive 
as  you  will,  you  cannot  read  the  riddle  of 
his    personality.       From     the     invulnerable 


202  On  the  Importance  of 

fortress  of  his  own  nature  he  smiles  con- 
temptuously on  the  beleaguering  armies  of 
your  curiosity  and  analysis.  And  it  is  not 
only  the  stranger  that  thus  defeats  you ;  it 
may  be  the  brother  brought  up  by  the  same 
fireside  with  you,  the  best  friend  whom  you 
have  known  from  early  school  and  college 
days,  the  very  child,  perhaps,  that  bears  your 
name,  and  with  whose  moral  and  mental  ap- 
paratus you  think  you  are  as  familiar  as  with 
your  own.  In  the  midst  of  the  most  ami- 
cable relationships  and  the  best  understand- 
ings, human  beings  are,  at  times,  conscious 
of  a  cold  feeling  of  strangeness  —  the  friend 
is  actuated  by  a  feeling  which  never  could 
actuate  you,  some  hitherto  unknown  part  of 
his  character  becomes  visible,  and  while  at 
one  moment  you  stood  in  such  close  neigh- 
bourhood, that  you  could  feel  his  arm  touch 
your  own,  in  the  next  there  is  a  feeling  of 
removal,  of  distance,  of  empty  space  betwixt 
him  and  you  in  which  the  wind  is  blowing. 
You  and  he  become  separate  entities.  He  is 
related  to  you  as  Border  peel  is  related  to 
Border  peel  on  Tweedside,  or  as  ship  is  re- 
lated to  ship  on  the  sea.  It  is  not  meant 
that  any  quarrel  or  direct  misunderstanding 
should  have  taken  place,  simply  that  feeling 
of  foreignness  is  meant  to  be  indicated  which 


a  Man  to   Himself.  203 

occurs  now  and  then  in  the  intercourse  of 
the  most  affectionate ;  which  comes  as  a 
harsh  reminder  to  friends  and  lovers  that 
with  whatsoever  flowery  bands  they  may  be 
linked,  they  are  separated  persons,  who  un- 
derstand, and  can  only  understand,  each 
other  partially.  It  is  annoying  to  be  put  out 
in  our  notions  of  men  and  women  thus,  and 
to  be  forced  to  rearrange  them.  It  is  a  mis- 
fortune to  have  to  manoeuvre  one's  heart  as 
a  general  has  to  manceuvre  his  army.  The 
globe  has  been  circmiinavigated,  but  no 
man  ever  yet  has ;  you  may  survey  a  king- 
dom and  note  the  result  in  maps,  but  all  the 
servants  in  the  world  could  not  produce  a  re- 
liable map  of  the  poorest  human  personality. 
And  the  worst  of  all  this  is,  that  love  and 
friendship  may  be  the  outcome  of  a  certain 
condition  of  knowledge  ;  increase  the  knowl- 
edge, and  love  and  friendship  beat  their 
wings  and  go.  Every  man's  road  in  life  is 
marked  by  the  graves  of  his  personal  likings. 
Intimacy  is  frequently  the  road  to  indiffer- 
ence, and  marriage  a  parricide.  From  these 
accidents  to  the  affections,  and  from  the 
efforts  to  repair  them,  life  has  in  many  a 
patched  and  tinkered  look. 

Love  and  friendship  are  the  discoveries  of 
ourselves  in  others,  and  our  delight  in  the 


i 


204  O/i  the  Importance  of 

recognition ;  and  in  men,  as  in  books,  we 
only  know  that,  the  parallel  of  which  we 
have  in  ourselves.  \\'e  know  only  that  por- 
tion of  the  world  which  we  have  travelled 
over  •,  and  we  are  never  a  whit  wiser  than 
our  own  experiences.  Imagination,  the  fal- 
con, sits  on  the  wrist  of  Experience,  the 
falconer ;  she  can  never  soar  beyond  the 
reach  of  his  whistle,  and  when  tired  she 
must  return  to  her  perch.  Our  knowledge 
is  limited  by  ourselves,  and  so  also  are  our 
imaginations.  And  so  it  cemes  about,  that 
a  man  measures  everything  by  his  own  foot- 
rule  ;  that  if  he  is  ignoble,  all  the  ignoble- 
ness  that  is  in  the  world  looks  out  upon  him, 
and  claims  kindred  with  him  ;  if  noble,  all 
the  nobleness  in  the  world  does  the  like. 
Shakspeare  is  always  the  same  height  with 
his  reader;  and  when  a  thousand  Christians 
subscribe  to  one  Confession  of  Faith,  hardly 
to  two  of  them  does  it  mean  the  same 
thing.  The  world  is  a  great  warehouse  of 
raiment,  to  which  every  one  has  access 
and  is  allowed  free  use ;  and  the  remark- 
able thing  is,  what  coarse  stuffs  are  often 
chosen,  and  how  scantily  some  people  are 
attired. 

We  never  get  quit  of  ourselves      While  I 
am   writing,  the  spring  is  outside,  and  this 


a  Man  to  Himself.  205 

season  of  the  year  touches  my  spirit  ahvays 
with  a  sense  of  newness,  of  strangeness,  of 
resurrection.  It  shoots  boyhood  again  into 
the  blood  of  middle  age.  That  tender  green- 
ing of  the  black  bough  and  the  red  field,  — 
that  coming  again  of  the  new-old  flowers, 
—  that  re-birth  of  love  in  all  the  family  of 
birds,  with  cooings,  and  caressings,  and 
building  of  nests  in  wood  and  brake,  —  that 
strange  glory  of  sunshine  in  the  air,  —  that 
stirring  of  life  in  the  green  mould,  making 
even  churchyards  beautiful,  —  seems  like  the 
creation  of  a  new  world.  And  yet  —  and  yet, 
even  with  the  lamb  in  the  sunny  field,  the 
lark  mile-high  in  the  blue,  Spring  has  her 
melancholy  side,  and  bears  a  sadder  burden 
to  the  heart  than  Autumn,  preaching  of  de- 
cay with  all  his  painted  woods.  For  the 
flowers  that  make  sweet  the  moist  places  in 
the  forest  are  not  the  same  that  bloomed  the 
year  before.  Another  lark  sings  above  the 
furrowed  field.  Nature  rolls  on  in  her  eternal 
course,  repeating  her  tale  of  spring,  summer, 
autumn,  winter  :  but  life  in  man  and  beast  is 
transitory,  and  other  living  creatures  take 
their  places.  It  is  quite  certain  that  one  or 
other  of  the  next  twenty  springs  will  come 
unseen  by  me,  will  awake  no  throb  of  trans- 
port in  my  veins.     But  will  it  be  less  bright 


2o6  On  the  Jinporta^ice  of 

on  that  account  ?  Will  the  Iamb  be  saddened 
in  the  field?  Will  the  lark  be  less  happy  in 
the  air?  The  sunshine  will  draw  the  daisy 
from  the  mound  under  which  I  sleep,  as 
carelessly  as  she  draws  the  cowslip  from  the 
meadow  by  the  riverside.  The  seasons  have 
no  ruth,  no  compunction.  They  care  not 
for  our  petty  lives.  The  light  falls  sweetly 
on  graveyards,  and  on  brown  labourers 
among  the  hay-swaths.  Were  the  world 
depopulated  to-morrow,  next  spring  would 
break  pitilessly  bright,  flowers  would  bloom, 
fruit-tree  boughs  wear  pink  and  white  ;  and 
although  there  would  be  no  eye  to  witness, 
Summer  would  not  adorn  herself  with  one 
blossom  the  less.  It  is  curious  to  think 
^  how  important  a  creature  a  man  is  to  him- 
self. We  cannot  help  thinking  that  all 
things  exist  for  our  particular  selves.  The 
sun,  in  whose  light  a  system  lives,  warms 
me ;  makes  the  trees  grow  for  me  ;  paints 
the  evening  sky  in  gorgeous  colours  for  me. 
The  mould  I  till,  produced  from  the  beds  of 
extinct  oceans  and  the  grating  of  rock  and 
mountain  during  countless  centuries,  exists 
that  I  may  have  muffins  to  breakfast.  Ani- 
mal life,  with  its  strange  instincts  and  affec- 
tions, is  to  be  recognised  and  cherished, — 
for  does  it  not  draw  my  burdens  for  me,  and 


a  Man  to  Hi  in  self.  207 

carry  me  from  place  to  place,  and  yield  me 
comfortable  broadcloth,  and  succulent  joints 
to  dinner?  I  think  it  matter  of  complaint 
that  Nature,  like  a  personal  friend  to  whom 
I  have  done  kind  services,  will  not  w-ear 
crape  at  my  funeral.  I  think  it  cruel  that 
the  sun  should  shine,  and  birds  sing,  and  I 
lying  in  my  grave.  People  talk  of  the  age 
of  the  world  !  So  far  as  I  am  concerned,  it 
began  with  my  consciousness,  and  will  end 
with  my  decease. 

And  yet,  this  self-consciousness,  which  so 
continually  besets  us,  is  in  itself  a  misery 
and  a  galling  chain.  We  are  never  happy 
till  by  imagination  we  are  taken  out  of  the 
pales  and  limits  of  self.  We  receive  happi- 
ness at  second  hand  :  the  spring  of  it  may 
be  in  ourselves,  but  we  do  not  know  it  to  be 
happiness,  till,  like  the  sun's  light  from  the 
moon,  it  is  reflected  on  us  from  an  object 
outside.  The  admixture  of  a  foreign  element 
sweetens  and  unfamiliarises  it.  Sheridan 
prepared  his  good  things  in  solitude,  but 
he  tasted  for  the  first  time  his  jest's  pros- 
perity when  it  came  back  to  him  in  illumined 
faces  and  a  roar  of  applause.  Your  oldest 
story  becomes  new  when  you  have  a  new 
auditor.  A  young  man  is  truth-loving  and 
amiable ;    but   it   is   only   when    these    fair 


2o8  On  the  Importance  of 

qualities  shine  upon  him  froiii  a  girl's  face 
that  he  is  smitten  by  transport  —  only  then 
is  he  truly  happy.  In  that  junction  of  hearts, 
in  that  ecstasy  of  mutual  admiration  and 
delight,  the  finest  epithalamium  ever  writ  by 
poet  is  hardly  worthy  of  the  occasion.  The 
countryman  purchases  oranges  at  a  fair  for 
his  little  ones ;  and  when  he  brings  them 
home  in  the  evening,  and  watches  his  chubby 
urchins,  sitting  up  among  the  bed-clothes, 
peel  and  devour  the  fruit,  he  is  for  the  time 
being  richer  than  if  he  drew  the  rental  of  the 
orange-groves  of  Seville.  To  eat  an  orange 
himself  is  nothing  ;  to  see  them  eat  it  is  a 
pleasure  worth  the  price  of  the  fruit  a  thou- 
sand times  over.  There  is  no  happiness  in 
the  world  in  which  love  does  not  enter ;  and 
love  is  but  the  discovery  of  ourselves  in 
others,  and  the  delight  in  the  recognition. 
Apart  from  others  no  man  can  make  his 
happiness ;  just  as,  apart  from  a  mirror  of 
one  kind  or  another,  no  man  can  become 
acquainted  with  his  own  lineaments. 

The  accomplishment  of  a  man  is  the  light 
by  which  we  are  enabled  to  discover  the 
limits  of  his  personality.  I'>ery  man  brings 
into  the  world  with  him  a  certain  amount  of 
pith  and  force,  and  to  that  pith  or  force  his 
amount    of  accomplishment  is  exactly  pro- 


a  Man  to  Himself.  209 

portioned.  It  is  in  this  way  that  every 
spoken  word,  every  action  of  a  man,  be- 
comes biographical.  Everything  a  man  says 
or  does  is  in  consistency  with  himself;  and 
it  is  by  looking  back  on  his  sayings  and 
doings  that  we  arrive  at  the  truth  concern- 
ing him.  A  man  is  one;  and  every  outcome 
of  him  has  a  family  resemblance.  Gold- 
smith did  not  "  write  like  an  angel  and  talk 
like  poor  Poll,"  as  we  may  in  part  discern 
from-Boswell's  "  Johnson."  Strange,  indeed, 
if  a  man  talked  continually  the  sheerest 
nonsense,  and  wrote  continually  the  grace- 
fulest  humours ;  if  a  man  was  lame  on  the 
street,  and  the  finest  dancer  in  the  ball-room. 
To  describe  a  character  by  antithesis  is  like 
painting  a  portrait  in  black  and  white  —  all 
the  curious  intermixtures  and  gradations  of 
colour  are  lost.  The  accomplishment  of  a 
human  being  is  measured  by  his  strength, 
or  by  his  nice  tact  in  using  his  strength. 
The  distance  to  which  your  gun,  whether 
rifled  or  smooth-bored,  will  carry  its  shot, 
depends  upon  the  force  of  its  charge.  A 
runner's  speed  and  endurance  depends  upon 
his  depth  of  chest  and  elasticity  of  limb. 
If  a  poet's  lines  lack  harmony,  it  instructs 
us  that  there  is  a  certain  lack  of  harmony  in 
himself.  We  see  why  Haydon  failed  as  an 
14 


2IO  Oh  the  Importance  of 

artist  when  we  read  his  life.  No  one  can 
dip  into  the  "Excursion"  without  discover- 
ing that  Wordsworth  was  devoid  of  humour, 
and  that  he  cared  more  for  the  narrow  Cum- 
])erland  vale  than  he  did  for  the  big  world. 
The  flavour  of  opium  can  be  detected  in  the 
"Ancient  Mariner"  and  "  Christabel."  A 
man's  word  or  deed  takes  us  back  to  him- 
self, as  the  sunbeam  takes  us  back  to  the 
sun.  It  is  the  sternest  philosophy,  but  on 
the  whole  the  truest,  that,  in  the  wide  arena 
of  the  world,  failure  and  success  are  not 
accidents  as  we  so  frequently  suppose,  but 
the  strictest  justice.  If  you  do  your  fair 
day's  work,  you  are  certain  to  get  your  fair 
day's  wage  —  in  praise  or  pudding,  which- 
ever happens  to  suit  your  taste.  You  may 
have  seen  at  country  fairs  a  machine  by 
which  the  rustics  test  their  strength  of  arm. 
A  country  fellow  strikes  vigorously  a  buffer, 
which  recoils,  and  the  amount  of  the  recoil 
—  dependent,  of  course,  on  the  force  with 
which  it  is  struck  —  is  represented  by  a  series 
of  notches  or  marks.  The  world  is  such  a 
buffer.  A  man  strikes  it  with  all  his  might : 
his  mark  may  be  ^40,000,  a  peerage,  and 
Westminster  Abbey,  a  name  in  literature  or 
art;  but  in  every  case  his  mark  is  nicely 
determined   by  the    force    or   the    art   with 


a  Man  to  Himself.  2 1 1 

which  the  buffer  is  struck.  Into  the  world 
a  man  brings  his  personality,  and  his  biog- 
raphy is  simply  a  catalogue  of  its  results. 

There  are  some  men  who  have  no  individ- 
uality, just  as  there  are  some  men  who  have 
no  face.  These  are  to  be  described  by  gen- 
erals, not  by  particulars.  They  are  thin, 
vapid,  inconclusive.  They  are  important 
solely  on  account  of  their  numbers.  For 
them  the  census  enumerator  labours ;  they 
form  majorities  ;  they  crowd  voting  booths  ; 
they  make  the  money ;  they  do  the  ordinary 
work  of  the  world.  They  are  valuable  when 
well  officered.  They  are  plastic  matter  to 
be  shaped  by  a  workman's  hand  ;  and  are 
built  with  as  bricks  are  built  with.  In  the 
aggregate,  they  form  public  opinion ;  but 
then,  in  every  age,  public  opinion  is  the 
disseminated  thoughts  of  some  half  a  dozen 
men,  who  are  in  all  probability  sleeping 
quietly  in  their  graves.  They  retain  dead 
men's  ideas,  just  as  the  atmosphere  retains 
the  light  and  heat  of  the  set  sun.  They  are 
not  light  — they  are  twilight.  To  know  how 
to  deal  with  such  men  —  to  know  how  to 
use  them  —  is  the  problem  which  ambitious 
force  is  called  upon  to  solve.  Personality, 
individuality,  force  of  character,  or  by 
whatever    name    we    choose    to    designate 


212  On  tlie  Importance  of 

original  and  vigourous  manhood,  is  the  best 
thing  which  nature  has  in  her  gift.  The 
forceful  man  is  a  prophecy  of  the  future. 
The  wind  blows  here,  but  long  after  it  is 
spent  the  big  wave  which  is  its  creature, 
breaks  on  a  shore  a  thousand  miles  away. 
It  is  curious  how  swiftly  influences  travel 
from  centre  to  circumference.  A  certain 
empress  invents  a  gracefully  pendulous 
crinoline,  and  immediately,  from  Paris  to 
the  pole,  the  female  world  is  behooped ;  and 
neither  objurgation  of  brother,  lover,  or 
husband,  deaths  by  burning  or  machinery, 
nor  all  the  wit  of  the  satirists,  are  likely  to 
affect  its  vitality.  Never  did  an  idea  go 
round  civilisation  so  rapidly.  Crinoline  has 
already  a  heavier  martyrology  than  many 
a  creed.  The  world  is  used  easily,  if  one  can 
only  hit  on  the  proper  method  ;  and  force  of 
character,  originality,  of  whatever  kind,  is 
always  certain  to  make  its  mark.  It  is  a 
diamond,  and  the  world  is  its  pane  of  glass. 
In  a  world  so  commonplace  as  this,  the 
peculiar  man  even  should  be  considered  a 
blessing.  Humorousness,  eccentricity,  the 
habit  of  looking  at  men  and  things  from  an 
odd  angle,  are  valuable,  because  they  break 
the  dead  level  of  society  and  take  away  its 
sameness.     It  is  well  that  a  man  should  be 


a  Man  to  Himself.  213 

known  by  something  else  than  his  name  ; 
there  are  few  of  us  who  can  be  known  by 
anything  else,  and  Brown,  Jones,  and  Rob- 
inson are  the  names  of  the  majority. 

In  literature  and  art,  this  personal  out- 
come is  of  the  highest  value ;  in  fact,  it  is 
the  only  thing  truly  valuable.  The  great- 
ness of  an  artist  or  a  writer  does  not  depend 
on  what  he  has  in  common  with  other  ar- 
tists and  writers,  but  on  what  he  has  pecuhar 
to  himself.  The  great  man  is  the  man  who 
does  a  thing  for  the  first  time.  It  was  a 
difficult  thing  to  discover  America ;  since  it 
has  been  discovered,  it  has  been  found  an 
easy  enough  task  to  sail  thither.  It  is  this 
peculiar  something  resident  in  a  poem  or  a 
painting  vt'hich  is  its  final  test,  —  at  all  events, 
possessing  it,  it  has  the  elements  of  endur- 
ance. Apart  from  its  other  values,  it  has, 
in  virtue  of  that,  a  biographical  one  ;  it  be- 
comes a  study  of  character ;  it  is  a  window 
through  which  you  can  look  into  a  human 
interior.  There  is  a  cleverness  in  the  world 
which  seems  to  have  neither  father  nor 
mother.  It  exists,  but  it  is  impossible  to 
tell  from  whence  it  comes,  —  just  as  it  is  im- 
possible to  lift  the  shed  apple-blossom  of  an 
orchard,  and  to  discover,  from  its  bloom  and 
odour,  to   what    branch   it  belonged.     Such 


2  14  On  the  Importance  of 

cleverness  illustrates  nothing  :  it  is  an 
anonymous  letter.  Look  at  it  ever  so  long, 
and  you  cannot  tell  its  lineage.  It  lives  in 
the  catalogue  of  waifs  and  strays.  On  the 
other  hand,  there  are  men  whose  every  ex- 
pression is  characteristic,  whose  every  idea 
seems  to  come  out  of  a  mould.  In  the 
short  sentence,  or  curt,  careless  saying  of 
such  when  laid  bare,  you  can  read  their 
histories  so  far,  as  in  the  smallest  segment 
of  a  tree  you  can  trace  the  markings  of  its 
rings.  The  first  dies,  because  it  is  shallow - 
rooted,  and  has  no  vitality  beyond  its  own  ; 
the  second  lives,  because  it  is  related  to  and 
fed  by  something  higher  than  itself.  The 
famous  axiom  of  Mrs.  Glass,  that  in  order 
to  make  hare-soup  you  "  must  first  catch 
your  hare,"  has  a  wide  significance.  In  art, 
literature,  social  life,  morals  even,  you  must 
first  catch  your  man  :  that  done,  everything 
else  follows  as  a  matter  of  course.  A  man 
may  learn  much ;  but  for  the  most  impor- 
tant thing  of  all  he  can  find  neither  teachers 
nor  schools. 

I'^ach  man  is  the  most  important  thing  in 
the  world  to  himself;  but  why  is  he  to  him- 
self so  important  ?  Simply  because  he  is  a 
personality  with  capacities  of  pleasure,  of 
pain,  who  can  be  hurt,  who  can  be  pleased, 


a  Man  to  Himself.  215 

who  can  be  disappointed,  who  labours  and 
expects  his  hire,  in  whose  consciousness,  in 
fact,  for  the  time  being,  the  whole  universe 
hves.  He  is,  and  everything  else  is  relative. 
Confined  to  his  own  personality,  making  it 
his  tower  of  outlook,  from  which  only  he 
can  survey  the  outer  world,  he  naturally 
enough  forms  a  rather  high  estimate  of  its 
value,  of  its  dignity,  of  its  intrinsic  worth. 
This  high  estimate  is  useful  in  so  far  as  it 
makes  his  condition  pleasant,  and  it  —  or 
rather  our  proneness  to  form  it  —  we  are  ac- 
customed to  call  vanity.  Vanity  —  which 
really  helps  to  keep  the  race  alive  — has  been 
treated  harshly  by  the  moralists  and  satir- 
ists. It  does  not  quite  deserve  the  hard 
names  it  has  been  called.  It  interpenetrates 
everything  a  man  says  or  does,  but  it  inter- 
penetrates for  a  useful  purpose.  If  it  is 
always  an  alloy  in  the  pure  gold  of  virtue,  it 
at  least  does  the  service  of  an  alloy  —  making 
the  precious  metal  workable.  Nature  gave 
man  his  powers,  appetites,  aspirations,  and 
along  with  these  a  pan  of  incense,  which 
fumes  from  the  birth  of  consciousness  to  its 
decease,  making  the  best  part  of  life  rapture, 
and  the  worst  part  endurable.  But  for 
vanity  the  race  would  have  died  out  long 
ago.     There  are  some  men  whose  lives  seem 


2i6  On  tlic  Importance  of 

to  us  as  undesirable  as  the  lives  of  toads  or 
serpents ;  yet  these  men  breathe  in  tolerable 
content  and  satisfaction.  If  a  man  could  hear 
all  that  his  fellows  say  of  him  —  that  he  is 
stupid,  that  he  is  henpecked,  that  he  will  be 
in  the  Gazette  in  a  week,  that  his  brain  is 
softening,  that  he  has  said  all  his  best  things 
—  and  if  he  could  believe  that  these  pleasant 
things  are  true,  he  would  be  in  his  grave 
before  the  month  was  out.  Happily  no  man 
does  hear  these  things ;  and  if  he  did,  they 
would  only  provoke  inextinguishable  wrath 
or  inextinguishable  laughter.  A  man  receives 
the  shocks  of  life  on  the  buffer  of  his  vanity. 
Vanity  acts  as  his  second  and  bottleholder 
in  the  world's  prize-ring,  and  it  fights  him 
well,  bringing  him  smilingly  up  to  time  after 
the  fiercest  knock-down  blows.  Vanity  is  to 
a  man  what  the  oily  secretion  is  to  a  bird, 
with  which  it  sleeks  and  adjusts  the  plumage 
ruffled  by  whatever  causes.  Vanity  is  not 
only  instrumental  in  keeping  a  man  alive 
and  in  heart,  but,  in  its  lighter  manifesta- 
tions, it  is  the  great  sweetener  of  social  exis- 
tence. It  is  the  creator  of  dress  and  fashion  ; 
it  is  the  inventor  of  forms  and  ceremonies ; 
to  it  we  are  indebted  for  all  our  traditions  of 
civility.  For  vanity  in  its  idler  moments  is 
benevolent,  is  as  willing  to  give  pleasure  as 


a  Man  lo  Himself.  2  i  7 

to  take.it,  and  accepts  as  sufficient  reward 
for  its  services  a  kind  word  or  an  approving 
smile.  It  delights  to  bask  in  the  sunshine 
of  approbation.  Out  of  man  vanity  makes 
genfkvacm.  The  proud  man  is  cold,  the 
selfish  man  hard  and  griping  —  the  vain  m_an 
desires_tQ_ shine,  to  please,  to  make  himself 
agreeable ;  and  this  amiable  feeling  works 
to  the  outside  of  suavity  and  charm  of  man- 
ner. The  French  are  the  vainest  people  in 
Europe,  and  the  most  polite. 

As  each  man  is  to  himself  the  most  impor- 
tant thing  in  the  world,  each  man  is  an 
egotist  in  his  thinkings,  in  his  desires,  in  his 
fears.  It  does  not,  however,  follow  that 
each  man  must  be  an  egotist  —  as  the  word 
is  popularly  understood  —  in  his  speech. 
But  even  although  this  were  the  case,  the 
world  would  be  divided  into  egotists,  likable 
and  unlikable.  There  are  two  kinds  of 
egotism,  a  trifling  vainglorious  kind,  a  mere 
burning  of  personal  incense,  in  which  the 
man  is  at  once  altar,  priest,  censer,  and 
divinity ;  a  kind  which  deals  with  the  acci- 
dents and  wrappages  of  the  speaker,  his 
equipage,  his  riches,  his  family,  his  servants, 
his  furniture  and  array.  The  other  kind  has 
no  taint  of  self-aggrandisement,  but  is  rooted 
in  the  faculties  of  love  and  humour  ;  and  this 


2  r  S  On  the  Importance  of 

latter  kind  is  never  offensive,  because  it  in- 
cludes others,  and  knows  no  scorn  or  ex- 
clusiveness.  The  one  is  the  offspring  of  a 
narrow  and  unimaginative  personality ;  the 
other  of  a  large  and  genial  one.  There  are 
persons  who  are  the  terrors  of  society. 
Perfectly  innocent  of  evil  intention,  they 
are  yet,  with  a  certain  brutal  unconscious- 
ness, continually  trampling  on  other  people's 
corns.  They  touch  you  every  now  and 
again  like  a  red-hot  iron.  You  wince,  ac- 
quit them  of  any  desire  to  wound,  but  find 
forgiveness  a  hard  task.  These  persons 
remember  everything  about  themselves, 
and  forget  everything  about  you.  They 
have  the  instinct  of  a  flesh-fly  for  a  raw. 
Should  your  great-grandfather  have  had  the 
misfortune  to  be  hanged,  such  a  person  is 
certain,  on  some  public  occasion,  to  make 
allusion  to  your  pedigree.  He  will  probably 
insist  on  your  furnishing  him  with  a  sketch 
of  your  family  tree.  If  your  daughter  has 
made  a  runaway  marriage  —  on  which  subject 
yourself  and  friends  maintain  a  judicious 
silence  —  he  is  certain  to  stumble  upon  it, 
and  make  the  old  sore  smart  again.  In  all 
this  there  is  no  malice,  no  desire  to  wound  ; 
it  arises  simply  from  want  of  imagination, 
from  profound  immersion   in  self.     An  im- 


a  Man  to  HiiiiselJ.  219 

aginative  man  recognises  at  once  a  portion 
of  hunself  in  his  fellow,  and  speaks  to  that. 
To  hurt  you  is  to  hurt  himself.  Much  of  the 
rudeness  we  encounter  in  life  cannot  be 
properly  set  down  to  cruelty  or  badness  of 
heart.  The  unimaginative  man  is  callous, 
and  although  he  hurts  easily,  he  cannot  be 
easily  hurt  in  return.  The  imaginative  man 
is  sensitive,  and  merciful  to  others,  out  of 
the  merest  mercy  to  himself. 

In  literature,  as  in  social  life,  the  attractive- 
ness of  egotism  depends  entirely  upon  the 
egotist.  If  he  be  a  conceited  man,  full  of 
self-admirations  and  vainglories,  his  egotism 
will  disgust  and  repel.  When  he  sings  his 
own  praises,  his  reader  feels  that  reflections 
are  being  thrown  on  himself,  and  in  a  natural 
revenge  he  calls  the  writer  a  coxcomb.  If, 
on  the  other  hand,  he  be  loving,  genial, 
humourous,  with  a  sympathy  for  others,  his 
garrulousness  and  his  personal  allusions  are 
forgiven,  because  while  revealing  himself,  he 
is  revealing  his  reader  as  well.  A  man  may 
write  about  himself  during  his  whole  life 
without  once  tiring  or  offending  ;  but  to  ac- 
complish this,  he  must  be  interesting  in 
himself — be  a  man  of  curious  and  vagrant 
moods,  gifted  with  the  cunningest  tact  and 
humour ;  and   the  experience  which   he  re- 


2  20  On  the  Importance  of 

lates  must  at  a  thousand  points  touch  the 
experiences  of  his  readers,  so  that  they,  as 
it  were,  become  partners  in  his  game.  When 
X.  tells  me,  with  an  evident  swell  of  pride, 
that  he  dines  constantly  with  half-a-dozen 
men-servants  in  attendance,  or  that  he  never 
drives  abroad  save  in  a  coach-and-six,  I  am 
not  conscious  of  any  special  gratitude  to  X. 
for  the  information.  Possibly,  if  my  estab- 
lishments boast  only  of  Cinderella,  and  if  a 
cab  is  the  only  vehicle  in  which  I  can  afford 
to  ride,  and  all  the  more  if  I  can  indulge  in 
that  only  on  occasions  of  solemnity,  I  fly 
into  a  rage,  pitch  the  book  to  the  other  end 
of  the  room,  and  may  never  afterwards  be 
brought  to  admit  that  X.  is  possessor  of  a 
solitary  ounce  of  brains.  If,  on  the  other 
hand,  Z.  informs  me  that  every  February  he 
goes  out  to  the  leafless  woods  to  hunt  early 
snowdrops,  and  brings  home  bunches  of 
them  in  his  hat ;  or  that  he  prefers  in  woman 
a  brown  eye  to  a  blue,  and  explains  by  early 
love  passages  his  reasons  for  the  preference, 
I  do  not  get  angry ;  on  the  contrary,  I  feel 
quite  pleased  ;  perhaps,  if  the  matter  is  re- 
lated with  unusual  grace  and  tenderness,  it  is 
read  with  a  certain  moisture  and  dimness  of 
eye.  And  the  reason  is  obvious.  The  ego- 
tistical X.   is   barren,  and    suggests   nothing 


a  Man   to  Himself.  221 

beyond  himself,  save  that  he  is  a  good  deal 
better  off  than  I  am  —  a  reflection  much 
pleasanter  to  him  than  it  is  to  me  ;  whereas 
the  equally  egotistical  Z.,  with  a  single  sen- 
tence about  his  snowdrops,  or  his  liking  for 
brown  eyes  rather  than  for  blue,  sends  my 
thoughts  wandering  away  back  among  my 
dead  spring-times,  or  wafts  me  the  odours  of 
the  roses  of  those  summers  when  the  colour 
of  an  eye  was  of  more  importance  than  it 
now  is.  X.'s  men-servants  and  coach-and- 
six  do  not  fit  into  the  life  of  his  reader,  be- 
cause in  all  probability  his  reader  knows  as 
much  about  these  things  as  he  knows  about 
Pharaoh ;  Z.'s  snowdrops  and  preferences 
of  colour  do,  because  every  one  knows  what 
the  spring  thirst  is,  and  every  one  in  his 
time  has  been  enslaved  by  eyes  whose  colour 
he  could  not  tell  for  his  life,  but  which  he 
knew  were  the  tenderest  that  ever  looked 
love,  the  brightest  that  ever  flashed  sun- 
light. Montaigne  and  Charles  Lamb  are 
egotists  of  the  Z.  class,  and  the  world  never 
wearies  reading  them  :  nor  are  egotists  of 
the  X.  school  absolutely  without  entertain- 
ment. Several  of  these  the  world  reads  as- 
siduously too,  although  for  another  reason. 
The  avid  vanity  of  Mr.  Pepys  would  be 
gratified  if  made  aware  of  the  success  of  his 


2  22  Ou  the  Importance  of,  etc. 

diary ;  but  curiously  to  inquire  into  the 
reason  of  tliat  success,  why  his  diary  has 
been  found  so  amusing,  would  not  conduce 
to  his  comfort. 

^  After  all,  the  only  thing  a  man  knows  is 
himself.  The  world-  outside  he  can  know 
only  by  hearsay.  His  shred  of  personality 
is  all  he  has  ;  than  that,  he  is  nothing  richer 
nothing  poorer.  Everything  else  is  mere 
accident  and  appendage.  Alexander  must 
not  be  measured  by  the  shoutings  of  his 
armies,  nor  Lazarus  at  Dives'  gates  by  his 
sores.  And  a  man  knows  himself  only  in 
part.  In  every  nature,  as  in  Australia,  there 
is  an  unexplored  territory  —  green,  w^ell- 
watered  regions  or  mere  sandy  deserts ;  and 
into  that  territory  experience  is  making 
progress  day  by  day.  We  can  remember 
when  we  knew  only  the  outer  childish  rim  — 
and  from  the  crescent  guessed  the  sphere  ; 
whether,  as  we  advanced,  these  have  been 
realised,  each  knows  for  himself. 


'HEN  a  man  glances  critically 
through  the  circle  of  his  intimate 
friends,  he  is  obliged  to  confess 
that  they  are  far  from  being  per- 
fect. They  possess  neither  the  beauty  of 
Apollo,  nor  the  wisdom  of  Solon,  nor  the  wit 
of  Mercutio,  nor  the  reticence  of  Napoleon 
III.  If  pushed  hard  he  will  be  constrained 
to  admit  that  he  has  known  each  and  all  get 
angry  without  sufficient  occasion,  make  at 
times  the  foolishest  remarks,  and  act  as  if 
personal  comfort  were  the  highest  thing  in 
their  estimation.  Yet,  driven  thus  to  the 
wall,  forced  to  make  such  uncomfortable 
confessions,  our  supposed  man  does  not  like 
his  friends  one  whit  the  less ;  nay,  more,  he 
is  aware  that  if  they  were  very  superior  and 
faultless  persons  he  would  not  be  conscious 
of  so  much  kindly  feeling  towards  them. 
The  tide  of  friendship  does  not  rise  high  on 
the  bank  of  perfection.     Amiable  weaknesses 


2  24  ^  Shelf  in  My  Bookcase. 

and  shortcomings  are  the  food  of  love.  It  is 
from  the  roughnesses  and  hiiperfect  breaks 
in  a  man  that  you  are  able  to  lay  hold  of 
him.  If  a  man  be  an  entire  and  perfect 
chrysolite,  you  slide  off  him  and  fall  back 
into  ignorance.     My  friends  are  not  perfect 

—  no  more  am  I  —  and  so  we  suit  each  other 
admirably.  Their  weaknesses  keep  mine  in 
countenance,  and  so  save  me  from  humilia- 
tion and  shame.  We  give  and  take,  bear 
and  forbear;  the  stupidity  they  utter  today 
salves  the  recollection  of  the  stupidity  I 
uttered  yesterday ;  in  their  want  of  wit  I  see 
my  own,  and  so  feel  satisfied  and  kindly  dis- 
posed. It  is  one  of  the  charitable  dispensa- 
tions of  Providence  that  perfection  is  not 
essential  to  friendship.  If  I  had  to  seek  my 
perfect  man,  I  should  wander  the  world  a 
good  while,  and  when  I  found  him,  and  was 
down  on  my  knees  before  him,  he  would,  to 
a  certainty,  turn  the  cold  shoulder  on  me 

—  and  so  life  would  be  an  eternal  search, 
broken  by  the  coldness  of  repulse  and  loneli- 
ness. Only  to  the  perfect  being  in  an  im- 
perfect world,  or  the  imperfect  being  in  a 
jjerfect  wodd,  is  everything  irretrievably  out 
of  joint. 

On  a  certain  shelf  in  the  bookcase  which 
stands  in  the  room  in  which  I  am  at  present 


A  She//  in  My  Bookcase.  225 

sitting—  bookcase  surmounted  by  a  white 
Dante,  looking  out  with  bUnd,  majestic  eyes 
—  are  collected  a  number  of  volumes  which 
look  somewhat  the  worse  for  wear.  Those 
of  them  which  originally  possessed  gilding 
have  had  it  fingered  off,  each  of  them  has 
leaves  turned  down,  and  they  open  of  them- 
selves at  places  wherein  I  have  been  happy, 
and  with  whose  every  word  I  am  familiar  as 
with  the  furniture  of  the  room  in  which  I 
nightly  slumber,  each  of  them  has  remarks 
relevant  and  irrelevant  scribbled  on  their 
margins.  These  favourite  volumes  cannot  be 
called  peculiar  glories  of  literature  ;  but  out 
of  the  world  of  books  have  I  singled  them, 
as  I  have  singled  my  intimates  out  of  the 
world  of  men.  I  am  on  easy  terms  with 
them,  and  feel  that  they  are  no  higher  than 
my  heart.  Milton  is  not  there,  neither  is 
Wordsworth ;  Shakspeare,  if  he  had  written 
comedies  only,  would  have  been  there  to  a 
certainty,  but  the  presence  of  the  five  great 
tragedies, —  Hamlet,  Othello,  Macbeth,  Lear, 
Antony  and  Cleopatra  —  for  this  last  should 
be  always  included  among  his  supreme  ef- 
forts—  has  made  me  place  him  on  the  shelf 
where  the  mighty  men  repose,  himself  the 
mightiest  of  all.  Reading  Milton  is  like 
dining  off  gold  plate  in  a  company  of  kings  ; 
15 


2  26  A  Shelf  in  My  Bookcase. 

very  splendid,  very  ceremonious,  and  not  a 
little  appalling.     Him    I    read   but   seldom, 
and   only   on    high    days    and    festivals    of 
the  spirit.     Him  I  never  lay  down  without 
feeling  my  appreciation  increased  for  lesser 
men  —  never  without  the  same  kind  of  com- 
fort  that  one  returning  from   the   presence 
feels  when  he  doffs  respectful  attitude  and 
dress  of  ceremony,  and  subsides  into  old  coat, 
familiar  arm-chair,  and  slippers.     After  long- 
continued    organ-music,    the   jangle    of    the 
jews-harp  is  felt  as  an  exquisite  relief.     With 
the   volumes   on   the    special   shelf   I    have 
spoken  of,  I  am  quite  at  home,  and  I  feel 
somehow  as  if  they  were  at  home  with  me. 
And  as  to-day  the  trees  bend  to  the  blast, 
and  the  rain  comes  in  dashes  against  my  win- 
dow, and  as  I  have  nothing  to  do  and  can- 
not get  out,  and  wish  to   kill  the  hours  in 
as  pleasant  a  manner  as  I  can,  I  shall  even 
talk  about  them,  as  in  sheer  liking  a  man 
talks  about  the  trees  in  his  garden,  or  the 
pictures  on  his  wall.     I  can't  expect  to  say 
anything   very  new    or    striking,  but  I    can 
give  utterance  to  sincere  affection,  and  that 
is  always  pleasant  to  one's  self  and  generally 
not  ungrateful  to  others. 

First,  then,  on  this  special  shelf  stands  Na- 
thaniel   Hawthorne's    ''  Twice-Told    Tales." 


A  Shelf  in  Aly  Bookcase.  227 

It  is  difficult  to  explain  why  I  like  these 
short  sketches  and  essays,  written  in  the  au- 
thor's early  youth,  better  than  his  later,  more 
finished,  and  better-known  novels  and  ro- 
mances. The  world  sets  greater  store  by 
"The  Scarlet  Letter  "  and  "  Transformation  " 
than  by  this  little  book— and,  in  such  matters 
of  liking  against  the  judgment  of  the  world, 
there  is  no  appeal.  I  think  the  reason  of 
my  liking  consists  in  this  —  that  the  novels 
were  written  for  the  world,  while  the  tales 
seem  written  for  the  author ;  in  these  he  is 
actor  and  audience  in  one.  Consequently, 
one  gets  nearer  him,  just  as  one  gets  nearer 
an  artist  in  his  first  sketch  than  in  his  fin- 
ished picture.  And  after  all,  one  takes  the 
greatest  pleasure  in  those  books  in  which  a 
peculiar  personality  is  most  clearly  revealed. 
A  thought  may  be  very  commendable  as  a 
thought,  but  I  value  it  chiefly  as  a  window 
through  which  I  can  obtain  insight  on  the 
thinker ;  and  Mr.  Hawthorne's  personality 
is  peculiar,  and  specially  peculiar  in  a  new 
country  like  America.  He  is  quiet,  fanciful, 
quaint,  and  his  humour  is  shaded  by  a  medi- 
tativeness  of  spirit.  Although  a  Yankee,  he 
partakes  of  none  of  the  characteristics  of  a 
Yankee.  His  thinking  and  his  style  have  an 
antique  air.     His  roots  strike  down  through 


2  28  A  She  if  in  My  Bookcase. 

the  visible  mould  of  the  present,  and  draw 
sustenance  from  the  generations  under 
ground.  The  ghosts  that  haunt  the  cham- 
ber of  his  mind  are  the  ghosts  of  dead  men 
and  women.  He  has  a  strong  smack  of  the 
Puritan ;  he  wears  around  him,  in  the  New 
England  town,  something  of  the  darkness 
and  mystery  of  the  aboriginal  forest.  He  is 
a  shy,  silent,  sensitive,  much  ruminating 
man,  with  no  special  overflow  of  animal 
spirits.  He  loves  solitude,  and  the  things 
which  age  has  made  reverent.  There  is 
nothing  modern  about  him.  Emerson's  writ- 
ing has  a  cold  cheerless  glitter,  like  the  new 
furniture  in  a  warehouse,  which  will  come  of 
use  by  and  by ;  Hawthorne's,  the  rich,  sub- 
dued colour  of  furniture  in  a  Tudor  mansion- 
house —  which  has  winked  to  long-extin- 
guished fires,  which  has  been  toned  by  the 
usage  of  departed  generations.  In  many  of 
the  "Twice-Told  Tales"  this  peculiar  per- 
sofiality  is  charmingly  exhibited.  He  writes 
of  the  street  or  the  sea-shore,  his  eye  takes 
in  every  object,  however  trifling,  and  on 
these  he  hangs  comments,  melancholy  and 
humourous.  He  does  not  require  to  go  far 
for  a  subject ;  he  will  stare  on  the  puddle  in 
the  street  of  a  New  luigland  village,  and  im- 
mediately it  becomes  a   Mediterranean  Sea 


A  Shelf  in  My  Bookcase.  229 

with  empires  lying  on  its  muddy  shores.  If 
the  sermon  be  written  out  fully  in  your 
heart,  almost  any  text  will  be  suitable  —  if 
you  have  to  find  your  sermon  in  your  text, 
you  may  search  the  Testament,  New  and 
Old,  and  be  as  poor  at  the  close  of  Revela- 
tion as  when  you  started  at  the  first  book  of 
Genesis.  Several  of  the  papers  which  I  like 
best  are  monologues,  fanciful,  humourous,  or 
melancholy  ;  and  of  these,  my  chief  favourites 
are  "  Sunday  at  Home,"  "  Night  Sketches," 
"  Footprints  on  the  Seashore,"  and  "  The 
Seven  Vagabonds."  This  last  seems  to 
me  almost  the  most  exquisite  thing  which 
has  flowed  from  its  author's  pen  —  a  perfect 
little  drama,  the  place,  a  showman's  waggon, 
the  time,  the  falling  of  a  summer  shower, 
full  of  subtle  suggestions  which,  if  followed, 
will  lead  the  reader  away  out  of  the  story 
altogether ;  and  illuminated  by  a  grave,  wist- 
ful kind  of  humour,  which  plays  in  turns  upon 
the  author's  companions  and  upon  the 
author  himself.  Of  all  Mr.  Hawthorne's 
gifts,  this  gift  of  humour  —  which  would  light 
up  the  skull  and  cross-bones  of  a  village 
churchyard,  which  would  be  silent  at  a  din- 
ner-table —  is  to  me  the  most  delightful. 

Then   this  writer   has    a  strangely   w^eird 
power.    He  loves  ruins  like  the  ivy,  he  skims 


230  A  She//  in  My  Bookcase. 

the  twilight  like  the  bat,  he  makes  himself  a 
familiar  of  the  phantoms  of  the  heart  and 
brain.  He  is  fascinated  by  the  jarred  brain 
and  the  ruined  heart.  Other  men  collect 
china,  books,  pictures,  jewels;  this  writer 
collects  singular  human  experiences,  ancient 
wrongs  and  agonies,  murders  done  on  unfre- 
quented roads,  crimes  that  seem  to  have  no 
motive,  and  all  the  dreary  mysteries  of  the 
world  of  will.  To  his  chamber  of  horrors 
Madame  Tussaud's  is  nothing.  With  proud, 
prosperous,  healthy  men,  Mr.  Hawthorne 
has  little  sympathy;  he  prefers  a  cracked 
piano  to  a  new  one  ;  he  likes  cobwebs  in  the 
corners  of  his  rooms.  All  this  peculiar  taste 
comes  out  strongly  in  the  little  book  in 
whose  praise  I  am  writing.  I  read  "  The 
Minister's  Black  Veil,"  and  find  it  the  first 
sketch  of  " The  Scarlet  Letter."  In  "  Wake-' 
field,"  —  the  story  of  the  man  who  left  his 
wife,  remaining  away  twenty  years,  but  who 
yet  looked  upon  her  every  day  to  appease 
his  burning  curiosity  as  to  her  manner  of 
enduring  his  absence  —  I  find  the  keenest 
analysis  of  an  almost  incomprehensible  act. 

And  then  Mr.  Hawthorne  has  a  skill  in 
constructing  allegories  which  no  one  of  his 
contemporaries,  either  I'jiglish  or  American, 
possesses.     These  allegorical  papers  may  be 


A  Shelf  in  My  Bookcase.  231 

read  with  pleasure  for  their  ingenuity,  their 
grace,  their  poetical  feeling ;  but  just  as,  gaz- 
ing on  the  surface  of  a  stream,  admiring  the 
ripples  and  eddies,  and  the  widening  rings 
made  by  the  butterfly  falling  into  it,  you  be- 
gin to  be  conscious  that  there  is  something 
at  the  bottom,  and  gradually  a  dead,  face 
wavers  upwards  from  the  oozy  weeds,  be- 
coming every  moment  more  clearly  defined," 
so  through  Mr.  Hawthorne's  graceful  sen- 
tences, if  read  attentively,  begins  to  flash  the 
hidden  meaning,  a  meaning,  perhaps,  the 
writer  did  not  care  to  express  formally  and  in 
set  terms,  and  which  he  merely  suggests  and 
leaves  the  reader  to  make  out  for  himself. 
If  you  have  the  book  I  am  writing  about, 
turn  up  "  David  Swan,"  "  The  Great  Carbun- 
cle," "  The  Fancy  Show-box,"  and  after  you 
have  read  these,  you  will  understand  what  I 
mean. 

The  next  two  books  on  my  shelf —  books 
at  this  moment  leaning  on  the  "  Twice-Told 
Tales  "  —  are  Professor  Aytoun's  "  Ballads  of 
Scotland,"  and  the  "  Lyra  Germanica." 
These  books  I  keep  side  by  side  with  a 
purpose.  The  forms  of  existence  with  which 
they  deal  seem  widely  separated ;  but  a 
strong  kinship  exists  between  them,  for 
all   that.     I  open  Professor   Aytoun's   book, 


232  A  ShcIJ  in  My  Bookcase. 

and  all  this  modern  life  —  with  its  railways, 
its  newspapers,  its  crowded  cities,  its  Lanca- 
shire distresses,  its  debates  in  Parliament — • 
fades  into  nothingness  and  silence.  Scot- 
land, from  Edinburgh  rock  to  the  Tweed, 
stretches  away  in  rude  spaces  of  moor  and 
forest.  The  wind  blows  across  it,  unpolluted 
by  the  smoke  of  towns.  That  which  lives 
how  has  not  yet  come  into  existence ;  what 
are  to-day  crumbling  and  ivied  ruins,  are 
warm  with  household  fires,  and  filled  with 
human  activities.  Every  Border  keep  is  a 
home :  brides  are  taken  there  in  their 
blushes  ;  children  are  born  there  ;  gray  men, 
the  crucifix  held  over  them,  die  there.  The 
moon  dances  on  a  plump  of  spears,  as  the 
moss-troopers,  by  secret  and  clesert  paths, 
ride  over  into  England  to  lift  a  prey,  and  the 
bale-fire  on  the  hill  gives  the  alarm  to  Cum- 
berland. Men  live  and  marry,  and  support 
wife  and  little  ones  by  steel-jacket  and 
spear ;  and  the  Flower  of  Yarrow,  when  her 
larder  is  empty,  claps  a  pair  of  spurs  in  her 
husband's  platter.  A  time  of  strife  and 
foray,  of  plundering  and  burning,  of  stealing 
and  reaving  ;  when  hate  waits  half  a  lifetime 
for  revenge,  and  where  difficulties  are  solved 
by  the  slash  of  a  sword-blade.  I  open  the 
German  book,  and  find  a  warfare  conducted 


A  Shelf  in  My  Bookcase.  233 

in  a  different  manner.  Here  the  Devil  rides 
about  wasting  and  destroying.  Here  temp- 
tations lie  in  wait  for  the  soul ;  here  pleas- 
ures, like  glittering  meteors,  lure  it  into 
marshes  and  abysses.  Watch  and  ward  are 
kept  here,  and  to  sleep  at  the  post  is  death. 
Fortresses  are  built  on  the  rock  of  God's 
promises  —  inaccessible  to  the  arrows  of  the 
wicked,  —  and  therein  dwell  many  trembhng 
souls.  Conflict  rages  around,  not  conducted 
by  Border  spear  on  barren  moorland,  but  by 
weapons  of  faith  and  prayer  in  the  dev^out 
German  heart ;  —  a  strife  earnest  as  the  other, 
with  issues  of  life  and  death.  And  the  re- 
semblance between  the  books  lies  in  this, 
that  when  we  open  them  these  past  expe- 
riences and  conditions  of  life  gleam  visibly 
to  us  far  down  like  submerged  cities  —  all 
empty  and  hollow  now,  though  once  filled 
with  life  as  real  as  our  own  —  through  trans- 
parent waters. 

In  glancing  over  these  German  hymns,  one 
is  struck  by  their  adaptation  to  the  seasons 
and  occurrences  of  ordinary  life.  Obviously, 
too,  the  writer's  religion  was  not  a  Sunday 
matter  only,  it  had  its  place  in  week-days  as 
well.  In  these  hymns  there  is  little  gloom, 
a  healthy  human  cheerfulness  pervades  many 
of   them ;    and    this    is    surely    as    it    ought 


234  A  Shelf  in  My  Bookcase. 

to  be.  These  hymns,  as  I  have  said,  are 
adapted  to  the  occasions  of  ordinary  Hfe  ;  and 
this  speaks  favourably  of  the  piety  which 
produced  them.  I  do  not  suppose  that  we 
P>ngHsh  are  less  religious  than  other  nations, 
but  we  are  undemonstrative  in  this,  as  in 
most  things.  We  have  the  sincerest  horror 
of  over-dressing  ourselves  in  fine  sentiments. 
We  are  a  little  shy  of  religion.  \\t  give  it 
a  day  entirely  to  itself,  and  make  it  a 
stranger  to  the  other  six.  We  confine  it  in 
churches,  or  in  the  closet  at  home,  and 
never  think  of  taking  it  with  us  to  the 
street,  or  into  our  business,  or  with  us  to  the 
festival,  or  the  gathering  of  friends.  Dr. 
Arnold  used  to  complain  that  he  could 
get  religious  subjects  treated  in  a  masterly 
way,  but  could  not  get  common  subjects 
treated  in  a  religious  spirit.  The  Germans 
have  done  better ;  they  have  melted  down 
the  Sunday  into  the  week.  They  have 
hymns  embodying  confessions  of  sin,  hymns 
in  the  near  prospect  of  death  :  and  they 
have  —  what  is  more  important  —  spiritual 
songs  that  may  be  sung  by  soldiers  on  the 
march,  by  the  artisan  at  the  loom,  by  the 
peasant  following  his  team,  by  the  mother 
among  her  children,  and  by  the  maiden  sit- 
ting at   her  wheel   listening  for  the  step  of 


A  Shelf  in  My  Bookcase.  235 

her  lover.  Religion  is  thus  brought  in  to 
refine  and  hallow  the  sweet  necessities  and 
emotions  of  life,  to  cheer  its  weariness,  and 
to  exalt  its  sordidness.  The  German  life  re- 
volves like  the  village  festival  with  the  pas- 
tor in  the  midst — joy  and  laughter  and 
merry  games  do  not  fear  the  holy  man,  for 
he  wears  no  unkindness  in  his  eye,  but  his 
presence  checks  everything  boisterous  or 
unseemly,  —  the  rude  word,  the  petulant  act, 
—  and  when  it  has  run  its  course,  he  uplifts 
his  hands  and  leaves  his  benediction  on  his 
children. 

The  "Lyra  Germanica "  contains  the  ut- 
terances of  pious  German  souls  in  all  condi- 
tions of  life  during  many  centuries.  In  it 
hymns  are  to  be  found  written  not  only  by 
poor  clergymen,  and  still  poorer  precentors, 
by  ribbon- manufacturers  and  shoemakers, 
who,  amid  rude  environments,  had  a  touch 
of  celestial  melody  in  their  hearts,  but  by 
noble  ladies  and  gentlemen,  and  crowned 
kings.  The  oldest  in  the  collection  is  one 
written  by  King  Robert  of  France  about  the 
year  1000.  It  is  beautifully  simple  and 
pathetic.  State  is  laid  aside  with  the  crown, 
pride  with  the  royal  robe,  and  Lazarus  at 
Dives'  gate  could  not  have  written  out  of  a 
lowlier   heart.     The  kingly   brow  may  bear 


236  A  Shelf  ill  My  Bookcase. 

itself  high  enough  before  men,  the  voice 
may  be  commanding  and  imperious  enough, 
cutting  through  contradiction  as  with  a 
sword  ;  but  before  the  Highest  all  is  humble- 
ness and  bended  knees.  Other  compositions 
there  are,  scattered  through  the  volume,  by 
great  personages,  several  by  Louisa  Hen- 
rietta, Electress  of  Brandenburg,  and  Anton 
Ulrich,  Duke  of  Brunswick,  —  all  written  two 
hundred  years  ago.  These  are  genuine 
poems,  full  of  faith  and  charity,  and  calm 
trust  in  God.  They  are  all  dead  now,  these 
noble  gentlemen  and  gentlewomen ;  their 
warfare,  successful  or  adverse,  has  been  long 
closed  ;  but  they  gleam  yet  in  my  fancy,  like 
the  white  effigies  on  tombs  in  dim  cathe- 
drals, the  marble  palms  pressed  together  on 
the  marble  breast,  the  sword  by  the  side  of 
the  knight,  the  psalter  by  the  side  of  the 
lady,  and  flowing  around  them  the  scrolls 
on  which  are  inscribed  the  texts  of  resur- 
rection. 

This  book  contains  surely  one  of  the  most 
touching  of  human  compositions,  —  a  song  of 
Luther's.  The  great  Reformer's  music  re- 
sounds to  this  day  in  our  churches ;  and  one 
of  the  rude  hymns  he  wrote  has  such  a  step 
of  thunder  in  it  that  the  father  of  Fred- 
erick the  Great,  Mr.  Carlyle  tells  us,  used  to 


A  Shelf  in  My  Bookcase.  237 

call  it  "God  Almighty's  Grenadier  March." 
This  one  I  speak  of  is  of  another  mood,  and 
is  soft  as  tears.  To  appreciate  it  thoroughly, 
one  must  think  of  the  burly,  resolute, 
humourous,  and  withal  tender-hearted  man, 
and  of  the  work  he  accomplished.  He  it 
was,  the  Franklin's  kite,  led  by  the  highest 
hand,  that  went  up  into  the  papal  thunder- 
cloud hanging  black  over  Europe  ;  and  the 
angry  fire  that  broke  upon  it  burned  it  not, 
and  in  roars  of  boltless  thunder  the  appari- 
tion collapsed,  and  the  sun  of  truth  broke 
through  the  inky  fragments  on  the  nations 
once  again.  He  it  was  w'ho,  when  advised 
not  to  trust  himself  in  Worms,  declared, 
"Although  there  be  as  many  devils  in 
Worms  as  there  are  tiles  on  the  house-tops, 
I  will  go."  He  it  was  who,  when  brought  to 
bay  in  the  splendid  assemblage,  said,  "  It  is 
neither  safe  nor  prudent  to  do  aught  against 
conscience.  Here  stand  I  —  I  cannot  do 
otherwise.  God  help  me.  Amen."  The 
rock  cannot  move  —  the  lightnings  may 
splinter  it.  Think  of  these  things,  and  then 
read  Luther's  "  Christmas  Carol,"  with  its 
tender  inscription,  "Luther  —  written  for  his 
little  son  Hans,  1546."  Coming  from  an- 
other pen,  the  stanzas  were  perhaps  not 
much ;  coming  from  his,  they  move  one  like 


238  A  ShclJ  in  My  Bookcase. 

the  finest  eloquence.  This  song  sunk  deep 
into  the  hearts  of  the  common  people,  and 
is  still  sung  from  the  dome  of  the  Kreuz 
Kirche  in  Dresden  before  daybreak  on 
Christmas   morning. 

There  is  no  more  delightful  reading  in  the 
world  than  these  Scottish  ballads.  The 
mailed  knight,  the  Border  peel,  the  moon- 
light raid,  the  lady  at  her  bower  window 
—  all  these  have  disappeared  from  the 
actual  world,  and  lead  existence  now  as 
songs.  Verses  and  snatches  of  these  ballads 
are  continually  haunting  and  twittering 
about  my  memory,  as  in  summer  the  swal- 
lows haunt  and  twitter  about  the  eav^es  of 
my  dwelling.  I  know  them  so  well,  and  they 
meet  a  mortal  man's  experience  so  fully, 
that  I  am  sure  —  with,  perhaps,  a  little  help 
from  Shakspeare  —  I  could  conduct  the 
whole  of  my  business  by  quotation,  —  do  all 
its  love-making,  i)ay  all  its  tavern-scores, 
quarrel  and  make  friends  again,  in  their 
words,  far  better  than  I  could  in  my  own. 
If  you  know  these  ballads,  you  will  find  that 
they  mirror  perfectly  your  every  mood.  If 
you  are  weary  and  down-hearted,  behold,  a 
verse  starts  to  your  memory  trembling  with 
the  very  sigh  you  have  heaved.  If  you  are 
merry,  a  stanza   is  dancing  to  the  tune  of 


A  Shelf  in  My  Bookcase.  239 

your  own  mirth.  If  you  love,  be  you  ever 
so  much  a  Romeo,  here  is  the  finest  lan- 
guage for  your  using.  If  you  hate,  here  are 
words  which  are  daggers.  If  you  like  bat- 
tle, here  for  two  hundred  years  have  trum- 
pets been  blowing  and  banners  flapping.  If 
you  are  dying,  plentiful  are  the  broken 
words  here  which  have  hovered  on  failing 
lips.  Turn  where  you  will,  some  fragment 
of  a  ballad  is  sure  to  meet  you.  Go  into  the 
loneliest  places  of  experience  and  passion, 
and  you  discover  that  you  are  walking  in 
human  footprints.  If  you  should  happen  to 
lift  the  first  volume  of  Professor  Aytoun's 
"  Ballads  of  Scotland,"  the  book  of  its  own 
accord  will  open  at  "  Clerk  Saunders,"  and 
by  that  token  you  will  guess  that  the  ballad 
has  been  read  and  re-read  a  thousand  times. 
And  what  a  ballad  it  is  !  The  story  in  parts 
is  somewhat  perilous  to  deal  with,  but  with 
what  instinctive  delicacy  the  whole  matter 
is  managed  !  Then  what  tragic  pictures, 
what  pathos,  what  manly  and  womanly  love  ! 
Just  fancy  how  the  sleeping  lovers,  the 
raised  torches,  and  the  faces  of  the  seven 
brothers  looking  on,  would  gleam  on  the 
canvas  of  Mr.  Millais  !  — 

"  '  For  in  may  come  my  seven  bauld  brothers, 
Wi'  torches  burnmg  bright.' 


240  A  Shelf  in  My  Bookcase. 

"  It  was  about  the  midnight  hour, 
And  they  were  fa'en  asleep, 
When  in  and  came  her  seven  brothers. 
And  stood  at  her  bed  feet. 

"Then  out  and  spake  the  first  o'  them, 
'  We  '11  awa'  and  let  them  be.' 
Then  out  and  spake  the  second  o'  them, 
'  His  father  has  nae  mair  than  he.' 

"  Then  out  and  spake  the  third  o'  them, 
'  I  wot  they  are  lovers  dear.' 
Then  out  and  spake  the  fourth  o'  them, 
'  They  ha'e  lo'ed  for  mony  a  year.' 

"Then  out  and  spake  the  fifth  o'  them, 
'  It  were  sin  true  love  to  twain.' 
'  'Twere  shame,'  out  spake  the  sixth  o'  them, 
'  To  slay  a  sleeping  man  I ' 

"  Then  up  and  gat  the  seventh  o'  them, 
And  never  word  spake  he. 
But  he  has  striped  his  bright-brown  brand 
Through  Saunders's  fair  bodie. 

•'  Clerk  Saunders  he  started,  and  Margaret  she  turn'd 
Into  his  arms  as  asleep  she  lay, 
And  sad  and  silent  was  the  night 
That  was  atween  thir  twae." 

Could  a  word  be  added  or  taken  from  these 
verses  without  spoiling  the  effect?  Vou 
never  think  of  the  language,  so  vividly  is 
the  picture  impressed  on  the  imagination. 
I  see  at  this  moment  the  sleeping  pair,  the 
bright  burning  torches,  the  lowering  faces 
of  the  brethren,  and  the  one  fiercer  and 
darker  than  the  others. 


A  Shelf  in  My  Bookcase.  241 

Pass  we  now  to  the  Second  Part  — 

"  Sae  painfully  she  clam'  the  \va', 
She  clam'  the  \va'  up  after  him  ; 
Hosen  nor  shoon  upon  her  feet 
She  had  na  time  to  put  them  on. 

"'  Is  their  ony  room  at  your  head,  Saunders  ? 
Is  there  ony  room  at  your  feet  ? 
Or  ony  room  at  your  side,  Saunders, 
Where  fain,  fain  I  wad  sleep  ? '  " 

In  that  last  line  the  very  heart-strings 
crack.  She  is  to  be  pitied  far  more  than  Clerk 
Saunders,  lying  stark  with  the  cruel  wound 
beneath  his  side,  tlie  love-kisses  hardly  cold 
yet  upon  his  lips. 

It  may  be  said  that  the  books  of  which  I 
have  been  speaking  attain  to  the  highest 
literary  excellence  by  favour  of  simplicity 
and  unconsciousness.  Neither  the  German 
nor  the  Scotsman  considered  himself  an 
artist.  The  Scot  sings  a  successful  foray,  in 
which  perhaps  he  was  engaged,  and  he  sings 
as  he  fought.  In  combat  he  did  not  dream 
of  putting  himself  in  a  heroic  position,  or  of 
flourishing  his  blade  in  a  manner  to  be  ad- 
mired. A  thrust  of  a  lance  would  soon  have 
finished  him  if  he  had.  The  pious  German  is 
over- laden  with  grief,  or  touched  by  some 
blessing  into  sudden  thankfulnes./,  and  he 
breaks  into  song  as  he  laughs  from  gladness 
or  groans  from  pain.  This  directness  and 
16 


242  A  Slu'lf  in  My  Bookcase. 

naturalness  give  Scottish  ballad  and  German 
hymn  their  highest  charm.  The  poetic  gold, 
if  rough  and  unpolished,  and  with  no  elabo- 
rate devices  carved  upon  it,  is  free  at  least 
from  the  alloy  of  conceit  and  simulation. 
Modern  writers  might,  with  benefit  to  them- 
selves, barter  something  of  their  finish  and 
dexterity  for  that  pure  innocence  of  nature, 
and  child-like  simplicity  and  fearlessness, 
full  of  its  own  emotion,  and  unthinking  of 
others  or  of  their  opinions,  which  characterise 
these  old  writings. 

llie  eighteenth  century  must  ever  remain 
the  most  brilliant  and  interesting  period  of 
English  literary  history.  It  is  interesting 
not  only  on  account  of  its  splendour,  but 
because  it  is  so  well  known.  We  are  familiar 
with  the  faces  of  its  great  men  by  portraits, 
and  with  the  events  of  their  lives  by  innumer- 
able biographies.  Every  reader  is  accjuainted 
with  Pope's  restless  jealousy,  Goldsmith's 
pitted  countenance  and  plum-coloured  coat, 
Johnson's  surly  manners  and  countless  ec- 
centricities, and  with  the  tribe  of  poets  who 
lived  for  months  ignorant  of  clean  linen,  who 
were  hunted  by  bailiffs,  who  smelt  of  stale 
punch,  and  who  wrote  descriptions  of  the 
feasts  of  the  gods  in  twopenny  cook-shops. 
Manners  and  modes  of  thought  had  greatly 


A  S/tiif  in  My  Bookcase.  243 

changed  since  the  century  before.  Mac- 
beth, in  silk  stockings  and  scarlet  coat,  slew 
King  Duncan,  and  the  pit  admired  the  wild' 
force  occasionally  exhibited  by  the  barbarian 
Shakspeare.  In  those  days  the  Muse  wore 
patches,  and  sat  in  a  sumptuous  boudoir, 
and  her  worshippers  surrounded  her  in  high- 
heeled  shoes,  ruffles,  and  powdered  wigs. 
When  the  poets  wished  to  paint  nature,  they 
described  Chloe  sitting  on  a  green  bank 
watching  her  sheep,  or  sighing  when  Stre- 
phon  confessed  his  flame.  And  yet,  with  all 
this  apparent  shallowness,  the  age  was  earn- 
est enough  in  its  way.  It  was  a  good  hater. 
It  was  filled  with  relentless  literary  feuds. 
Just  recall  the  lawless  state  of  things  on  the 
Scottish  Border  in  the  olden  time,  —  the 
cattle-lifting,  the  house-burning,  the  mid- 
night murders,  the  powerful  marauders,  who, 
safe  in  numerous  retainers  and  moated  keep, 
bade  defiance  to  law ;  recall  this  state  of 
things,  and  imagine  the  quarrels  and  raids 
literary,  the  weapons  satire  and  wit,  and  you 
have  a  good  idea  of  the  darker  aspect  of  the 
time.  There  were  literary  reavers,  who  laid 
desolate  at  a  foray  a  whole  generation  of 
wits.  There  were  literary  duels,  fought  out 
in  grim  hate  to  the  very  death.  It  was  dan- 
gerous   to    interfere    in    the    literary    melee. 


244  ^  Shelf  in  J/r  Bookcase. 

Every  now  and  then  a  fine  gentleman  was 
run  through  with  a  jest,  or  a  fooHsh  Mse- 
cenas  stabbed  to  the  heart  with  an  epigram, 
and  his  fooUshness  settled  for  ever. 

As  a  matter  of  course,  on  this  special  shelf 
of  books  will  be  found  Boswell's  "  Life  of 
Johnson  "  —  a  work  in  our  literature  unique, 
priceless.  That  altogether  unvenerable  yet 
profoundly  venerating  Scottish  gentleman, 
—  that  queerest  mixture  of  qualities,  of  force 
and  weakness,  blindness  and  insight,  vanity 
and  solid  worth,  —  has  written  the  finest 
book  of  its  kind  which  our  nation  possesses. 
It  is  quite  impossible  to  over-state  its  worth. 
You  lift  it,  and  immediately  the  intervening 
years  disappear,  and  you  are  in  the  presence 
of  the  Doctor.  You  are  made  free  of  the 
last  century,  as  you  are  free  of  the  present. 
You  double  your  existence.  The  book  is  a 
letter  of  introduction  to  a  whole  knot  of  de- 
parted English  worthies.  In  virtue  of  Bos- 
well's labours,  we  know  Johnson —  the  central 
man  of  his  time  —  better  than  Burke  did,  or 
Reynolds,  —  far  better  even  than  Boswell 
did.  We  know  how  he  expressed  himself, 
in  what  grooves  his  thoughts  ran,  how  he 
ate,  drank,  and  slept.  Boswell's  unconscious 
art  is  wonderful,  and  so  is  the  result  attained. 
This  book  has  arrested,  as  never  book  did 


A  Shelf  in  My  Bookcase.  245 

before,  time  and  decay.  Bozzy  is  really  a 
wizard  :  he  makes  the  sun  stand  still.  Till 
his  work  is  done,  the  future  stands  respect- 
fully aloof.  Out  of  ever-shifting  time  he  has 
made  fixed  and  permanent  certain  years,  and 
in  these  Johnson  talks  and  argues,  while 
Burke  listens,  and  Reynolds  takes  snuff,  and 
Goldsmith,  with  hollowed  hand,  whispers  a 
sly  remark  to  his  neighbour.  There  have 
they  sat,  these  ghosts,  for  seventy  years 
now,  looked  at  and  listened  to  by  the  passing 
generations;  and  there  they  still  sit,  the 
one  voice  going  on  !  Smile  at  Boswell  as 
we  may,  he  was  a  spiritual  phenomenon 
quite  as  rare  as  Johnson.  More  than  most 
he  deserves  our  gratitude.  Let  us  hope  that 
when  next  Heaven  sends  England  a  man 
like  Johnson,  a  companion  and  listener  like 
Boswell  will  be  provided.  The  Literary 
Club  sits  forever.  What  if  the  Mermaid 
were  in  like  eternal  session,  with  Shaks- 
peare's  laughter  ringing  through  the  fire 
and  hail  of  wit  ! 

By  the  strangest  freak  of  chance  or  liking, 
the  next  book  on  my  shelf  contains  the 
poems  of  Ebenezer  Elliott,  the  Corn-law 
Rhymer.  This  volume,  adorned  by  a  hideous 
portrait  of  the  author,  I  can  well  remember 
picking  up   at  a  bookstall  for  a  few  pence 


246  ^4  Shelf  in  My  Bookcase. 

many  years  ago.  It  seems  curious  to  me 
that  this  man  is  not  in  these  days  better 
known.  A  more  singular  man  has  seldom 
existed,  —  seldom  a  more  genuine.  His  first 
business  speculation  failed,  but  when  about 
forty  he  commenced  again,  and  this  time 
fortune  made  amends  for  her  former  ill- 
treatment.  His  warehouse  was  a  small, 
dingy  place,  filled  with  bars  of  iron,  with  a 
bust  of  Shakspeare  looking  down  on  the 
whole.  His  country-house  contained  busts 
of  Achilles,  Ajax,  and  Napoleon.  Here  is  a 
poet  who  earned  a  competence  as  an  iron- 
merchant  ;  here  is  a  monomaniac  on  the 
Corn-laws,  who  loved  nature  as  intensely  as 
ever  did  Burns  or  Wordsworth.  Here  is  a 
John  Bright  uttering  himself  in  fiery  and 
melodious  verse,  —  Ai)ollo  with  iron  dust 
on  his  face,  wandering  among  the  Sheffield 
knife-grinders  !  If  you  wish  to  form  some 
idea  of  the  fierce  discontent  which  thirty 
years  ago  existed  amongst  the  working  men 
of  England,  you  should  read  the  Corn-law 
Rhymes.  The  Corn-laws  are  to  him  the 
twelve  plagues  of  Egypt  rolled  together. 
On  account  of  them  he  denounces  his  coun- 
try as  the  Hebrew  prophets  were  wont  to 
denounce  Tyre  and  Sidon.  His  rage  breaks 
out  into  curses,  which   are  not  forgiveness. 


A  Shelf  in  Aly  Bookcase.  247 

He  is  maddened  by  the  memory  of  Peterloo. 
Never,  perhaps,  was  a  sane  human  being  so 
tyrannised  over  by  a  single  idea.  A  skeleton 
was  found  on  one  of  the  Derbyshire  hills. 
Had  the  man  been  crossed  in  love?  had  he 
crept  up  there  to  die  in  the  presence  of  the 
stars?  "  Not  at  all,"  cries  Elliott ;  "  he  was  a 
victim  of  the  Corn-laws,  who  preferred  dying 
on  the  mountain-top  to  receiving  parish 
pay."  In  his  wild  poem  all  the  evil  kings  in 
Hades  descend  from  their  thrones  when 
King  George  enters.  They  only  let  slip  the 
dogs  of  war;  //d' taxed  the  people's  bread. 
"Sleep  on,  proud  Britoness  ! "  he  exclaims 
over  a  woman  at  rest  in  the  grave  she  had 
purchased.  In  one  of  his  articles  in  Tail's 
Magazine,  he  seriously  proposed  that  trage- 
dies should  be  written  showing  the  evils  of 
the  Corn-laws,  and  that  on  a  given  night 
they  should  be  performed  in  every  theatre 
of  the  kingdom,  so  that  the  nation  might,  by 
the  speediest  possible  process,  be  converted 
to  the  gospel  of  Free-trade.  In  his  eyes  the 
Corn-laws  had  gathered  into  their  black 
bosoms  every  human  wrong :  repeal  them, 
and  lo  !  the  new  heavens  and  the  new  earth  ! 
A  poor  and  shallow  theory  of  the  universe, 
you  will  say ;  but  it  is  astonishing  what 
poetry  he  contrives  to  extract  out  of  it.     It 


248  A  Shelf  in  My  Bookcase. 

is  hardly  possible,  without  quotation,  to  give 
an  idea  of  the  rage  and  fury  which  pervade 
these  poems.  He  curses  his  political  oppo- 
nents with  his  whole  heart  and  soul.  He 
pillories  them,  and  pelts  them  with  dead  cats 
and  rotten  eggs.  The  earnestness  of  his 
mood  has  a  certain  terror  in  it  for  meek  and 
quiet  people.  His  poems  are  of  the  angri- 
est, but  their  anger  is  not  altogether  undi- 
vine.  His  scorn  blisters  and  scalds,  his 
sarcasm  flays ;  but  then  outside  nature  is 
constantly  touching  him  with  a  summer 
breeze  or  a  branch  of  pink  and  white  apple- 
blossom,  and  his  mood  becomes  tenderness 
itself.  He  is  far  from  being  lachrymose ; 
and  when  he  is  pathetic,  he  affects  one  as 
when  a  strong  man  sobs.  His  anger  is  not 
nearly  so  frightful  as  his  tears.  I  cannot 
understand  why  Elliott  is  so  litde  read. 
Other  names  not  particularly  remarkable  I 
meet  in  the  current  reviews  —  his  never. 
His  book  stands  on  my  shelf,  but  on  no 
other  have  I  seen  it.  This  I  think  strange, 
because,  apart  from  the  intrinsic  value  of  his 
verse  as  verse,  it  has  an  historical  value. 
Evil  times  and  embittered  feelings,  now  hap- 
pily passed  away,  are  preserved  in  his  books, 
like  Pompeii  and  Herculaneum  in  Vesuvian 
lava.     He  was  a  poet  of  the  poor,  but  in  a 


A  Shelf  in  My  Bookcase.  249 

quite  peculiar  sense.  Burns,  Crabbe,  \\^ords- 
worth,  were  poets  of  the  poor,  but  mainly  of 
the  peasant  poor.  Elliott  is  the  poet  of  the 
English  artisans,  —  men  who  read  newspapers 
and  books,  who  are  members  of  mechanics' 
institutes,  who  attend  debating  societies, 
who  discuss  pohtical  measures  and  political 
men,  who  are  tormented  by  ideas,  —  a  very 
different  kind  of  persons  altogether.  It  is 
easier  to  find  poetry  beneath  the  blowing 
hawthorn  than  beneath  the  plumes  of  factory 
or  furnace  smoke.  In  such  uninviting  at- 
mospheres Ebenezer  Elliott  found  his ;  and 
I  am  amazed  that  the  world  does  not  hold  it 
in  greater  regard,  if  for  nothing  else  than 
for  its  singularity. 

There  is  many  another  book  on  my  shelf 
on  which  I  might  dilate,  but  this  gossiping 
must  be  drawn  to  a  close.  When  I  began, 
the  wind  was  bending  the  trees,  and  the  rain 
came  against  the  window  in  quick,  petulant 
dashes.  For  hours  now,  wind  and  rain  have 
ceased,  the  trees  are  motionless,  the  garden 
walk  is  dry.  The  early  light  of  wintry  sunset 
is  falling  across  my  paper,  and,  as  I  look  up, 
the  white  Dante  oj)posite  is  dipped  in  tender 
rose.  Less  stern  he  looks,  but  not  less  sad, 
than  he   did  in   the  morning.     The   sky   is 


250  A  Shelf  in  My  Bookcase. 

clear,  and  an  arm  of  bleak  pink  vapour 
stretches  up  into  its  depths.  The  air  is  cold 
with  frost,  and  the  rain  which  those  dark 
clouds  in  the  east  hold  will  fall  during  the 
night  in  silent,  feathery  flakes.  When  I 
wake  to-morrow,  the  world  will  be  changed, 
frosty  forests  will  cover  my  bedroom  panes, 
the  tree  branches  will  be  furred  with  snows ; 
and  to  the  crumbs  which  it  is  my  daily  cus- 
tom to  sprinkle  on  the  shrubbery  walk  will 
come  the  lineal  descendant  of  the  charitable 
redbreast  that  covered  up  with  leaves  the 
sleeping  children  in  the  wood. 


c  hi  /\  J  t  e:  R 


HAUCER  is  admitted  on  all 
hands  to  be  a  great  poet,  but,  by 
the  general  public  at  least,  he  is 
W^hk^^  '^ot  frequently  read.  He  is  like 
a  cardinal  virtue,  a  good  deal  talked  about, 
a  good  deal  praised,  honoured  by  a  vast 
amount  of  distant  admiration,  but  with  little 
practical  acquaintance.  And  for  this  there 
are  many  and  obvious  reasons.  He  is  an 
ancient,  and  the  rich  old  mahogany  is  neg- 
lected for  the  new  and  glittering  veneer. 
He  is  occasionally  gross  ;  often  tedious  and 
obscure  ;  he  frequently  leaves  a  couple  of 
lovers,  to  cite  the  opinions  of  Greek  and 
Roman  authors ;  and  practice  and  patience 
are  required  to  melt  the  frost  of  his  orthog- 
raphy, and  let  his  music  flow  freely.  In 
the  conduct  of  his  stories  he  is  garrulous, 
homely,  and  slow-paced.  He  wrote  in  a 
leisurely  world,  when  there  was  plenty  of 
time   for  writing  and  reading,   long    before 


252  Geoffrey   Chancer. 

the  advent  of  the  printer's  devil  or  of 
IMr.  Mudie.  There  is  httle  of  the  lyrical 
element  in  him.  He  does  not  dazzle  by 
sentences.  He  is  not  quotable.  He  does 
not  shine  in  extracts  so  much  as  in  entire 
poems.  There  is  a  pleasant  equality  about 
his  writing ;  he  advances  through  a  story  at 
an  even  pace,  glancing  round  him  on  every- 
thing with  curious,  humourous  eyes,  and 
having  his  say  about  everything.  He  is  the 
prince  of  story-tellers,  and  however  much 
he  may  move  others,  he  is  not  moved  him- 
self. His  mood  is  so  kindly  that  he  seems 
always  to  have  written  after  dinner,  or  after 
hearing  good  news,  —  that  he  had  received 
from  the  king  another  grant  of  wine,  for 
instance, — and  he  discourses  of  love  and 
lovers'  raptures,  and  the  disappointments  of 
life,  half  sportively,  half  sadly,  like  one  who 
has  passed  through  all,  felt  the  sweetness 
and  the  bitterness  of  it,  and  been  able  to 
strike  a  balance.  He  had  his  share  of 
crosses  and  misfortune,  but  his  was  a  nature 
which  time  and  sorrow  could  only  mellow 
and  sweeten ;  and  for  all  that  had  come  and 
gone,  he  loved  his  "  books  clothed  in  black 
and  red,"  to  sit  at  good  men's  feasts  ;  and  if 
silent  at  table,  as  the  Countess  of  Pembroke 
reported,  the  "  stain  upon  his  lip  was  wine." 


Geoffrey   Chaucer.  253 

Chaucer's  face  is  to  his  writings  the  best 
preface  and  commentary ;  it  is  contented- 
looking,  like  one  familiar  with  pleasant 
thoughts,  shy  and  self-contained  somewhat, 
as  if  he  preferred  his  own  company  to  the 
noisy  and  rude  companionship  of  his  fellows  ; 
and  the  outlines  are  bland,  fleshy,  voluptu- 
ous, as  of  one  who  had  a  keen  relish  for  the 
pleasures  that  leave  no  bitter  traces.  Tears 
and  mental  trouble,  and  the  agonies  of 
doubt,  you  cannot  think  of  in  connexion 
with  it ;  laughter  is  sheathed  in  it,  the  light 
of  a  smile  is  diffused  over  it.  In  face  and 
turn  of  genius  he  differs  in  every  respect 
from  his  successor,  Spenser;  and  in  truth, 
in  Chaucer  and  Spenser  we  see  the  foun- 
tains of  the  two  main  streams  of  British 
song  :  the  one  flowing  through  the  drama 
and  the  humourous  narrative,  the  other 
through  the  epic  and  the  didactic  poem. 
Chaucer  rooted  himself  firmly  in  fact,  and 
looked  out  upon  the  world  in  a  half-humour- 
ous, half- melancholy  mood.  Spenser  had 
but  little  knowledge  of  men  as  men ;  the 
cardinal  virtues  were  the  personages  he  was 
acquainted  with  ;  in  everything  he  was  "  high 
fantastical,"  and,  as  a  consequence,  he 
exhibits  neither  humour  nor  pathos.  Chau- 
cer was  thoroughly  national ;   his  characters. 


254  Geoffrey   Chaucer. 

place  them  where  he  may,  —  in  Thebes  or 
Tartary,  —  are  natives  of  one  or  other  of 
the  Enghsh  shires.  Spenser's  genius  was 
country-less  as  Ariel ;  search  ever  so  dili- 
gently, you  will  not  find  an  English  daisy  in 
all  his  enchanted  forests.  Chaucer  was  tol- 
erant of  everything,  the  vices  not  excepted ; 
morally  speaking,  an  easy-going  man,  he 
took  the  world  as  it  came,  and  did  not 
fancy  himself  a  whit  better  than  his  fellows. 
Spenser  was  a  Platonist,  and  fed  his  grave 
spirit  on  high  speculations  and  moralities. 
Severe  and  chivalrous,  dreaming  of  things 
to  come,  unsuppled  by  luxury,  unenshived 
by  passion,  somewhat  scornful  and  self- 
sustained,  it  needed  but  a  tyrannous  king,  an 
electrical  political  atmosphere,  and  a  deeper 
interest  in  theology  to  make  a  Puritan  of 
him,  as  these  things  made  a  Puritan  of 
Milton.  The  differences  between  Chaucer 
and  Spenser  are  seen  at  a  glance  in  their 
portraits.  Chaucer's  face  is  round,  good- 
humoured,  constitutionally  pensive,  and 
thoughtful.  You  see  in  it  that  he  has  often 
been  amused,  and  that  he  may  easily  be 
amused  again.  Spenser's  is  of  sharper  and 
keener  feature,  disdainful,  and  breathing  that 
severity  which  appertains  to  so  many  of 
the  Elizabethan  men.     A  fourteenth-century 


Geoffrey   Chaucer.  255 

child,  with  delicate  prescience,  would  have 
asked  Chaucer  to  assist  her  in  a  strait,  and 
would  not  have  been  disappointed.  A  six- 
teenth-century child  in  like  circumstances 
would  have  shrunk  from  drawing  on  herself 
the  regards  of  the  sterner-looking  man.  We 
can  trace  the  descent  of  the  Chaucerian  face 
and  genius  in  Shakspeare  and  Scott,  of  the 
Spenserian  in  Milton  and  Wordsworth.  In 
our  day,  Mr.  Browning  takes  after  Chaucer, 
Mr.  Tennyson  takes  after  Spenser. 

Hazlitt,  writing  of  the  four  great  English 
poets,  tells  us,  Chaucer's  characteristic  is 
intensity,  Spenser's  remoteness,  Milton's  sub- 
limity, and  Shakspeare's  everything.  The 
sentence  is  epigrammatic  and  memorable 
enough ;  but  so  far  as  Chaucer  is  concerned, 
it  requires  a  little  explanation.  He  is  not 
intense,  for  instance,  as  Byron  is  intense,  or 
as  Wordsworth  is  intense.  He  does  not  see 
man  like  the  one,  nor  nature  like  the  other. 
He  would  not  have  cared  much  for  either  of 
these  poets.  And  yet,  so  far  as  straightfor- 
wardness in  dealing  with  a  subject,  and  com- 
plete though  quiet  realisation  of  it  goes  to 
make  up  intensity  of  poetic  mood,  Chaucer 
amply  justifies  his  critic.  There  is  no 
wastefulness  or  explosiveness  about  the  old 
writer.     He  does  his  work  silently,  and  with 


256  Geoffrey  Chaiieer. 

no  appearance  of  effort.  His  poetry  shines 
upon  us  like  a  May  morning ;  but  the  streak 
over  the  eastern  hill,  the  dew  on  the  grass, 
the  wind  that  bathes  the  brows  of  the  way- 
farer, are  not  there  by  haphazard  :  they  are 
the  results  of  occult  forces,  a  whole  solar 
system  has  had  a  hand  in  their  production. 
From  the  apparent  ease  with  which  an  artist 
works,  one  does  not  readily  give  him  credit 
for  the  mental  force  he  is  continuously 
putting  forth.  To  many  people,  a  chaotic 
"  Festus"  is  more  wonderfuj  than  a  rounded, 
melodious  "  Princess."  The  load  which  a 
strong  man  bears  gracefully  does  not  seem  so 
heavy  as  the  load  which  the  weaker  man  stag- 
gers under.  Incompletion  is  force  fighting  ; 
completion  is  force  quiescent,  its  work  done. 
Nature's  forces  are  patent  enough  in  some 
scarred  volcanic  moon  in  which  no  creature 
can  breathe ;  only  the  sage,  in  some  soft 
green  earth,  can  discover  the  same  forces 
reft  of  fierceness  and  terror,  and  translated 
into  sunshine,  and  falling  dew,  and  the  rain- 
bow gleaming  on  the  shower.  It  is  somewhat 
in  this  way  that  the  propriety  of  Hazlitt's 
criticism  is  to  be  vindicated.  Chaucer  is 
the  most  simple,  natural,  and  homely  of 
our  poets,  and  whatever  he  attempts  he 
does  thoroughly.      The  Wife  of  Bath  is  so 


Geoffrey   Chaucer.  257 

distinctly  limned  that  she  could  sit  for  her 
portrait.  You  can  count  the  embroidered 
sprigs  in  the  jerkin  of  the  squire.  You  hear 
the  pilgrims  laugh  as  they  ride  to  Canter- 
bury. The  whole  thing  is  admirably  life-like 
and  seems  easy,  and  in  the  seeming  easiness 
we  are  apt  to  forget  the  imaginative  sympa- 
thy which  bodies  forth  the  characters,  and 
the  joy  and  sorrow  from  which  that  sympathy 
has  drawn  nurture.  Unseen  by  us,  the  ore 
has  been  dug,  and  smelted  in  secret  furnaces, 
and  when  it  is  poured  into  perfect  moulds,  we 
are  apt  to  forget  by  what  potency  the  whole 
thing  has  been  brought  about. 

And,  with  his  noticing  eyes,  into  what  a 
brilliant,  many  tinted  world  was  Chaucer 
born  !  In  his  day  life  had  a  certain  breadth, 
colour,  and  picturesqueness  which  it  does  not 
possess  now.  Jt  wore  a  braver  dress,  and 
flaunted  more  in  the  sun.  Five  centuries 
effect  a  great  change  on  manners.  A  man 
may  nowadays,  and  without  the  slightest 
suspicion  of  the  fact,  brush  clothes  with 
half  the  English  peerage  on  a  sunny  after- 
noon in  Pall  Mall.  Then  it  was  quite  different. 
The  fourteenth  century  loved  magnificence 
and  show.  Great  lords  kept  princely  state  in 
the  country;  and  when  they  came  abroad, 
what  a  retinue,  what  waving  of  plumes,  and 
17 


258  Geoffrey   Ch  a  iieer. 

shaking  of  banners,  and  glittering  of  rich 
dresses  !  Rehgion  was  picturesque,  with  dig- 
nitaries, and  cathedrals,  and  fuming  incense, 
and  the  Host  carried  through  the  streets. 
The  franklin  kept  open  house,  the  city  mer- 
chant feasted  kings,  the  outlaw  roasted  his 
venison  beneath  the  greenwood  tree.  There 
was  a  gallant  monarch  and  a  gallant  court. 
The  eyes  of  the  Countess  of  Salisbury  shed 
influence ;  Maid  Marian  laughed  in  Sher- 
wood. London  is  already  a  considerable 
place,  numbering,  perhaps,  two  hundred 
thousand  inhabitants,  the  houses  clustering 
close  and  high  along  the  river  banks ;  and 
on  the  beautiful  April  nights  the  nightin- 
gales are  singing  round  the  suburban  vil- 
lages of  Strand,  Holborn,  and  Charing.  It 
is  rich  withal ;  for  after  the  battle  of  Poi- 
tiers, Harry  Picard,  wine-merchant  and  Lord 
Mayor,  entertained  in  the  city  four  kings,  — 
to  wit,  Pvdward,  king  of  England,  John,  king 
of  I'Vance,  David,  king  of  Scotland,  and  the 
king  of  C"yi)rus ;  and  the  last-named  po- 
tentate, slightly  heated  with  Harry's  wine, 
engaged  him  at  dice,  and  being  nearly  ruined 
thereby,  the  honest  wine-merchant  returned 
the  poor  king  his  money,  which  was  received 
with  all  thankfulness.  There  is  great  stir 
on  a  summer's    morning  in    that    Warwick- 


Geoffrey   Chaucer.  259 

shire  castle,  —  pawing  of  horses,  tossing  of 
bridles,  clanking  of  spurs.  The  old  lord 
climbs  at  last  into  his  saddle  and  rides  off 
to  court,  his  favourite  falcon  on  his  wrist,  four 
squires  in  immediate  attendance  carrying  his 
arms;  and  behind  these  stretches  a  merry- 
cavalcade,  on  which  the  chestnuts  shed  their 
milky  blossoms.  In  the  absence  of  the  old 
peer,  young  Hopeful  spends  his  time  as  befits 
his  rank  and  expectations.  He  grooms  his 
steed,  plays  with  his  hawks,  feeds  his  hounds, 
and  labours  diligently  to  acquire  grace  and 
dexterity  in  the  use  of  arms.  At  noon  the 
portcullis  is  lowered,  and  out  shoots  a  bril- 
liant array  of  ladies  and  gentlemen,  and  fal- 
coners with  hawks.  They  bend  their  course 
to  the  river,  over  which  a  rainbow  is  rising 
from  a  shower.  Yonder  young  lady  is  laugh- 
ing at  our  stripling  squire,  who  seems  half 
angry,  half  pleased  :  they  are  lovers,  depend 
upon  it.  A  few  years,  and  the  merry  beauty 
will  have  become  a  noble,  gracious  woman, 
and  the  young  fellow,  sitting  by  a  watch-fire 
on  the  eve  of  Cressy,  will  wonder  if  she  is 
thinking  of  him.  But  the  river  is  already 
reached.  Up  flies  the  alarmed  heron,  his 
long  blue  legs  trailing  behind  him ;  a  hawk 
is  let  loose ;  the  young  lady's  laugh  has 
ceased   as,    with   gloved    hand    shading    fair 


26o  Geoffrey  Chaucer. 

forehead  and  sweet  gray  eye,  she  watches 
hawk  and  heron  lessening  in  heaven.  The 
Crusades  are  now  over,  but  the  rehgious 
fervour  which  inspired  them  Ungered  behind  ; 
so  that,  even  in  Chaucer's  day,  Christian 
kings,  when  their  consciences  were  op- 
pressed by  a  crime  more  than  usually 
weighty,  talked  of  making  an  effort  before 
they  died  to  wrest  Jerusalem  and  the  sepul- 
chre of  Christ  from  the  grasp  of  the  infidel. 
England  had  at  this  time  several  holy 
shrines,  the  most  famous  being  that  of 
Thomas  a  Becket  at  Canterbury,  which  at- 
tracted crowds  of  pilgrims.  The  devout 
travelled  in  large  companies ;  and,  in  the 
May  mornings,  a  merry  sight  it  was  as, 
with  infinite  clatter  and  merriment,  with 
bells,  minstrels,  and  buffoons,  they  passed 
through  thorp  and  village,  bound  for  the 
tomb  of  St.  Thomas.  The  pageant  of  events, 
which  seems  enchantment  when  chronicled 
by  Froissart's  splendid  pen,  was  to  Chaucer 
contemporaneous  incident ;  the  chivalric 
richness  was  the  familiar  and  every-day  dress 
of  his  time.  Into  this  princely  element  he 
was  endued,  and  he  saw  every  side  of  it,  — 
the  frieze  as  well  as  the  cloth  of  gold.  In 
the  "Canterbury  Tales"  the  fourteenth 
century   murmurs,   as  the    sea   murmurs    in 


Geoffrey   Chaucer.  261 

the  pink-mouthed  shells  upon   our  mantel- 
pieces. 

Of  his  life  we  do  not  know  much.  In  his 
youth  he  studied  law  and  dishked  it,  —  a  cir- 
cumstance common  enough  in  the  lives  of 
men  of  letters,  from  his  time  to  that  of  Shir- 
ley Brooks.  How  he  lived,  what  he  did 
when  he  was  a  student,  we  are  unable  to 
discover.  Only  for  a  moment  is  the  curtain 
lifted,  and  we  behold,  in  the  old  quaint 
peaked  and  gabled  Fleet  Street  of  that  day, 
Chaucer  thrashing  a  Franciscan  friar  (friar's 
offence  unknown),  for  which  amusement  he 
was  next  morning  fined  two  shillings.  His- 
tory has  preserved  this  for  us,  but  has  for- 
gotten all  the  rest  of  his  early  life,  and  the 
chronology  of  all  his  poems.  What  curious 
flies  are  sometimes  found  in  the  historic 
amber  !  On  Chaucer's  own  authority,  we 
know  that  he  served  under  Edward  III.  in 
his  French  campaign,  and  that  he  for  some 
time  lay  in  a  French  prison.  On  his  return 
from  captivity  he  married ;  he  was  valet 
in  the  king's  household ;  he  was  sent  on 
an  embassy  to  Genoa,  and  is  supposed  to 
have  visited  Petrarch,  then  resident  at  Padua, 
and  to  ha\e  heard  from  his  lips  the  story  of 
"  Griselda,"  —  a  tradition  which  one  would 
like  to  believe.     He   had   his  share   of  the 


262  Geoffrey   Chaucer, 

sweets  and  the  bitters  of  life.  He  enjoyed 
offices  and  gifts  of  wine,  and  he  felt  the 
pangs  of  poverty  and  the  sickness  of  hope 
deferred.  He  was  comptroller  of  the  cus- 
toms for  wools  ;  from  which  post  he  was  dis- 
missed, —  ivhy,  we  know  not ;  although  one 
cannot  help  remembering  that  Edward  made 
the  writing  out  of  the  accounts  in  Chaucer's 
own  hand  the  condition  of  his  holding  office, 
and  having  one's  surmises.  Foreign  coun- 
tries, strange  manners,  meetings  with  cele- 
brated men,  love  of  wife  and  children,  and 
their  deaths,  freedom  and  captivity,  the 
light  of  a  king's  smile  and  its  withdrawal, 
furnished  ample  matter  of  meditation  to  his 
humane  and  thoughtful  spirit.  In  his  youth 
he  wrote  allegories  full  of  ladies  and  knights 
dwelling  in  impossible  forests  and  nursing 
impossible  passions ;  but  in  his  declining 
years,  when  fortune  had  done  all  it  could 
for  him  and  all  it  could  against  him,  he  dis- 
carded these  dreams,  and  betook  himself  to 
the  actual  stuff  of  human  nature.  Instead 
of  the  "  Romance  of  the  Rose,"  we  have  the 
"  Canterbury  Tales  "  and  the  first  great  Eng- 
lish poet.  One  likes  to  fancy  Chaucer  in 
his  declining  days  living  at  Woodstock,  with 
his  books  about  him,  and  where  he  could 
watch    the    daisies    opening    themselves   at 


Geoffrey   Ch  a  u  cer.  263 

sunrise,  shutting  themselves  at  sunset,  and 
composing  his  wonderful  stories,  in  which 
the  fourteenth  century  lives,  —  riding  to  bat- 
tle in  iron  gear,  hawking  in  embroidered 
jerkin  and  waving  plume,  sitting  in  rich  and 
solemn  feast,  the  monarch  on  the  dais. 

Chaucer's  early  poems  have  music  and 
fancy,  they  are  full  of  a  natural  delight  in 
sunshine  and  the  greenness  of  foliage  ;  but 
they  have  little  human  interest.  They  are 
allegories  for  the  most  part,  more  or  less 
satisfactorily  wrought  out.  The  allegorical 
turn  of  thought,  the  delight  in  pageantry, 
the  "clothing  upon"  of  abstractions  with 
human  forms,  flowered  originally  out  of 
chivalry  and  the  feudal  times.  Chaucer  im- 
ported it  from  the  French,  and  was  proud  of 
it  in  his  early  poems,  as  a  young  fellow  of 
that  day  might  be  "proud  of  his  horse  furni- 
ture, his  attire,  his  waving  plume.  And  the 
poetic  fashion  thus  set  retained  its  vitality 
for  a  long  while,  —  indeed,  it  was  only  thor- 
oughly made  an  end  of  by  the  French  Revo- 
lution, which  made  an  end  of  so  much  else. 
About  the  last  trace  of  its  influence  is  to  be 
found  in  Burns'  sentimental  correspondence 
with  Mrs.  M'Lehose,  in  which  the  lady  is 
addressed  as  Clarinda,  and  the  poet  signs 
himself  Svlvander.     It  was  at  best  a  mere 


264  Geoffrey  Chaucer. 

beautiful  gauze  screen  drawn  between  the 
poet  and  nature ;  and  passion  put  his  foot 
through  it  at  once.  After  Chaucer's  youth 
was  over,  he  discarded  somewhat  scornfully 
these  abstractions  and  shows  of  things.  U'he 
"  Flower  and  the  Leaf"  is  a  beautiful-tinted 
dream  ;  the  "  Canterbury  Tales  "  are  as  real 
as  anything  in  Shakspeare  or  Burns.  The 
ladies  in  the  earlier  poems  dwell  in  forests, 
and  wear  coronals  on  their  heads  ;  the  people 
in  the  '•  Tales "  are  engaged  in  the  actual 
concerns  of  life,  and  you  can  see  the  splashes 
of  mire  upon  their  clothes.  The  separate 
poems  which  make  up  the  "  Canterbury 
Tales "  were  probably  written  at  different 
periods,  after  youth  was  gone,  and  when  he 
had  fallen  out  of  love  with  florid  imagery 
and  allegorical  conceits ;  and  we  can  fancy 
him,  perhaps  fallen  on  evil  days  and  in  re- 
tirement, anxious  to  gather  up  these  loose 
efforts  into  one  consummate  whole.  If  of 
his  flowers  he  would  make  a  bouquet  for 
posterity,  it  was  of  course  necessary  to  pro- 
cure a  string  to  tie  them  together.  These 
necessities,  which  ruin  other  men,  are  the 
fortunate  chances  of  great  poets.  Then  it 
was  that  the  idea  arose  of  a  meeting  of  pil- 
grims at  the  Tabard  in  Southwark,  of  their 
riding  to  Canterbury,   and  of  the  different 


Geoffrey   Chaucer.  265 

personages  relating  stories  to  beguile  the 
tedium  of  the  journey.  The  notion  was  a 
happy  one,  and  the  execution  is  superb.  In 
those  days,  as  we  know,  pilgrimages  were 
of  frequent  occurrence  ;  and  in  the  motley 
group  that  congregated  on  such  occasions, 
the  painter  of  character  had  full  scope.  All 
conditions  of  people  are  comprised  in  the 
noisy  band  issuing  from  the  courtyard  of 
the  Southwark  inn  on  that  May  morning  in 
the  fourteenth  century.  Let  us  go  nearer, 
and  have  a  look  at  them. 

There  is  a  grave  and  gentle  Knight,  who 
has  fought  in  many  wars,  and  who  has  many 
a  time  hurled  his  adversary  down  in  tourna- 
ment before  the  eyes  of  all  the  ladies  there, 
and  who  has  taken  the  place  of  honour  at 
many  a  mighty  feast.  There,  riding  beside 
him,  is  a  blooming  Squire,  his  son,  fresh  as 
the  month  of  May,  singing  day  and  night 
from  very  gladness  of  heart,  —  an  impetuous 
young  fellow,  who  is  looking  forward  to 
the  time  when  he  will  flesh  his  maiden 
sword,  and  shout  his  first  war-cry  in  a 
stricken  field.  There  is  an  Abbot,  mounted 
on  a  brown  steed.  He  is  middle-aged  ;  his 
bald  crown  shines  Hke  glass,  and  his  face 
looks  as  if  it  were  anointed  with  oil.  He 
has  been  a  valiant  trencher-man  at  many  a 


266  Geoffrey  Chaucer. 

well-furnished  feast.  Above  all  things,  he 
loves  hunting ;  and  when  he  rides,  men  can 
hear  his  bridle  ringing  in  the  whistling  wind 
loud  and  clear  as  a  chapel  bell.  There  is  a 
thin,  ill-conditioned  Clerk,  perched  peril- 
ously on  a  steed  as  thin  and  ill-conditioned 
as  himself.  He  will  never  be  rich,  I  fear. 
He  is  a  great  student,  and  would  rather  have 
a  few  books  bound  in  black  and  red  hanging 
above  his  bed  than  be  sheriff  of  the  county. 
There  is  a  Prioress,  so  gentle  and  tender- 
hearted that  she  weeps  if  she  hears  the 
whimper  of  a  beaten  hound,  or  sees  a  mouse 
caught  in  a  trap.  There  rides  the  laughing 
Wife  of  Bath,  bold-faced  and  fair.  She  is 
an  adept  in  love-matters.  Five  husbands 
already  "she  has  fried  in  their  own  grease  " 
till  they  were  glad  to  get  into  their  graves 
to  escape  the  scourge  of  her  tongue. 
Heaven  rest  their  souls,  and  swiftly  send  a 
sixth  !  She  wears  a  hat  large  as  a  targe  or 
buckler,  brings  the  artillery  of  her  eyes  to 
bear  on  the  young  Squire,  and  jokes  him 
about  his  sweetheart.  Beside  her  is  a 
worthy  Parson,  who  delivers  faithfully  the 
message  of  his  Master.  Although  he  is 
poor,  he  gives  away  the  half  of  his  tithes  in 
charity.  His  parish  is  waste  and  wide,  yet 
if  sickness  or  misfortune  should   be-all  one 


Geoffrey  Chaucer.  267 

of  his  flock,  he  rides,  in  spite  of  wind,  or 
rain,  or  thunder,  to  administer  consolation. 
Among  the  crowd  rides  a  rich  Franklin,  who 
sits  in  the  Guildhall  on  the  dais.  He  is 
profuse  and  hospitable  as  summer.  All  day 
his  table  stands  in  the  hall  covered  with 
meats  and  drinks,  and  every  one  who  enters 
is  welcome.  There  is  a  Ship-man,  whose 
beard  has  been  shaken  by  many  a  tempest, 
whose  cheek  knows  the  kiss  of  the  salt  sea 
spray ;  a  Merchant,  with  a  grave  look,  clean 
and  neat  in  his  attire,  and  with  plenty  of 
gold  in  his  purse.  There  is  a  Doctor  of 
Physic,  who  has  killed  more  men  than  the 
Knight,  talking  to  a  Clerk  of  Laws.  There  is 
a  merry  Friar,  a  lover  of  good  cheer ;  and 
when  seated  in  a  tavern  among  his  com- 
panions, singing  songs  it  would  be  scarcely 
decorous  to  repeat,  you  may  see  his  eyes 
twinkling  in  his  head  for  joy,  like  stars  on 
a  frosty  night.  Beside  him  is  a  ruby-faced 
Sompnour,  whose  breath  stinks  of  garlic  and 
onions,  who  is  ever  roaring  for  wine,  —  strong 
wine,  wine  red  as  blood;  and  when  drunk, 
he  disdains  f>nglish,  —  nothing  but  Latin  will 
serve  his  turn.  In  front  of  all  is  a  Miller, 
who  has  been  drinking  over-night,  and  is 
now  but  indifferently  sober.  There  is  not  a 
door  in  the   country  that  he  cannot  break 


268  Geoffrey  Chaucer. 

by  running  at  it  with  his  head.  The  pil- 
grims are  all  ready,  the  host  gives  the 
word,  and  they  defile  through  the  arch. 
The  Miller  blows  his  bagpipes  as  they  issue 
from  the  town  ;  and  away  they  ride  to  Can- 
terbury, through  the  boon  sunshine,  and 
between  the  white  hedges  of  the  English 
May. 

Had  Chaucer  spent  his  whole  life  in 
seeking,  he  could  not  have  selected  a  bet- 
ter contemporary  circumstance  for  securing 
variety  of  character  than  a  pilgrimage  to 
Canterbury.  It  comprises,  as  we  see,  all 
kinds  and  conditions  of  people.  It  is  the 
fourteenth-century  England  in  little.  In 
our  time,  the  only  thing  that  could  match  it 
in  this  respect  is  Epsom  down  on  the  great 
race-day.  But  then  Epsom  down  is  too 
unwieldy;  the  crowd  is  too  great,  and  it 
does  not  cohere,  save  for  the  few  seconds 
when  gay  jackets  are  streaming  towards  the 
winning-post.  The  Prologue  to  the  "Can- 
terbury Tales,"  in  which  we  make  the 
acquaintance  of  the  pilgrims,  is  the  ripest, 
most  genial  and  humourous,  altogether  the 
most  masterly  thing  which  Chaucer  has  left 
us.  In  its  own  way,  and  within  its  own 
limits,  it  is  the  most  wonderful  thing  in  the 
language.     The  people  we  read  about  are  as 


Geoffrey  Chaucer.  269 

real  as  the  people  we  brush  clothes  with  in 
the  street,  —  nay,  much  more  real ;  for  we  not 
only  see   their   faces,   and  the    fashion    and 
texture    of    their   garments,    we    know   also 
what    they  think,    how  they  express    them- 
selves, and  with   what  eyes  they  look  out  on 
the  world.     Chaucer's  art  in  this  Prologue  is 
simple  perfection.     He  indulges  in  no  irrele- 
vant description,  he  airs  no  fine  sentiments, 
he    takes   no   special    pains   as  to  style   or 
poetic  ornament ;    but  every  careless  touch 
tells,   every  sly  line   reveals   character ;    the 
description    of  each    man's    horse-furniture 
and  array  reads  like  a  memoir.     The  Nun's 
pretty  oath  bewrays  her.     We  see  the  bold, 
well-favoured    countenance  of  the    Wife    of 
Bath  beneath  her  hat,  as   "  broad  as  a  buck- 
ler or  a  targe  "  ;  and  the  horse  of  the  Clerk, 
'<■  as  lean  as  is  a  rake,"  tells  tales  of  his  mas- 
ter's cheer.     Our  modern  dress  is  worthless 
as  an  indication  of  the  character,  or  even  of 
the  social  rank,  of  the  wearer ;  in  the  olden 
time  it  was  significant  of  personal  tastes  and 
appetites,    of    profession,    and    condition  of 
life    generally.      See    how    Chaucer    brings 
out    a    character    by   touching    merely    on 
a  few  points  of  attire  and  personal  appear- 
ance :  — 


270  Geoffrey  Chancer. 

"  I  saw  his  sleeves  were  purfiled  at  the  hand 
With  fur,  and  that  the  finest  of  the  land  ; 
And  for  to  fasten  his  hood  under  his  chin 
He  had  of  gold  ywrought  a  curious  pin. 
A  love-knot  in  the  greater  end  there  was; 
His  head  was  l)ald,  and  shone  as  any  glass, 
And  eke  his  face  as  if  it  was  anoint." 

What  more  would  you  have?  You  could 
not  have  known  the  monk  better  if  you  had 
lived  all  your  life  in  the  monastery  with 
him.  The  sleeves  daintly  purfiled  with  fur 
give  one  side  of  him,  the  curious  pin  with 
the  love-knot  another,  and  the  shining 
crown  and  face  complete  the  character  and 
the  picture.  The  sun  itself  could  not  photo- 
graph more  truly. 

On  their  way  the  pilgrims  tell  tales, 
and  these  are  as  various  as  their  relaters ; 
in  fact,  the  Prologue  is  the  soil  out  of 
which  they  all  grow.  Dramatic  propriety  is 
everywhere  instinctively  preserved.  "  The 
Knight's  Tale"  is  noble,  splendid,  and 
chivalric  as  his  own  nature  ;  the  tale  tokl  by 
the  Wife  of  Bath  is  exactly  what  one  would 
expect.  With  what  good-humour  the  rosy 
sinner  confesses  her  sins  !  how  hilarious  she 
is  in  her  repentance  !  "The  Miller's  Tale  " 
is  coarse  and  full-flavoured, — just  the  kind  of 
thing  to  be  told  by  a  rough,  humourous  fellow 
who  is  hardly  yet  sober.     And  here  it   rnay 


Geoffrey  Chaucer.  271 

be  said  that  although  there  is  a  good  deal 
of  coarseness  in  the  "Canterbury  Tales," 
there  is  not  the  slightest  tinge  of  pruriency. 
There  is  such  a  single-heartedness  and  inno- 
cence in  Chaucer's  vulgarest  and  broadest 
stories,  such  a  keen  eye  for  humour,  and 
such  a  hearty  enjoyment  of  it,  and  at  the 
same  time  such  an  absence  of  any  delight  in 
impurity  for  impurity's  sake,  that  but  little 
danger  can  arise  from  their  perusal.  He  is 
so  fond  of  fun  that  he  will  drink  it  out  of 
a  cup  that  is  only  indifferently  clean.  He 
writes  often  like  Fielding,  he  never  writes 
as  Smollett  sometimes  does.  These  stories, 
ranging  from  the  noble  romance  of  Palamon 
and  Arcite  to  the  rude  intrigues  of  Clerk 
Nicholas,  —  the  one  fitted  to  draw  tears  down 
the  cheeks  of  noble  ladies  and  gentlemen  ; 
the  other  to  convulse  with  laughter  the 
midriffs  of  illiterate  clowns, — give  one  an 
idea  of  the  astonishing  range  of  Chaucer's 
powers.  He  can  suit  himself  to  every  com- 
pany, make  himself  at  home  in  every  circum- 
stance of  life ;  can  mingle  in  tournaments 
where  beauty  is  leaning  from  balconies,  and 
the  knights,  with  spear  in  rest,  wait  for  the 
blast  of  the  trumpet ;  and  he  can  with  equal 
ease  sit  with  a  couple  of  drunken  friars  in  a 
tavern  laughing    over    the    confessions    they 


272  Geoffrey  Chaucer. 

hear,  and  singing  questionable  catches  be- 
tween whiles.  Chaucer's  range  is  wide  as 
that  of  Shakspeare,  —  if  we  omit  that  side  of 
Shakspeare's  mind  which  confronts  the  other 
world,  and  out  of  which  Hamlet  sprang,  —  and 
his  men  and  women  are  even  more  real,  and 
more  easily  matched  in  the  living  and  breath- 
ing world.  For  in  Shakspeare's  characters, 
as  in  his  language,  there  is  surplusage, 
superabundance  ;  the  measure  is  heaped  and 
running  over.  From  his  sheer  wealth,  he  is 
often  the  most  ////dramatic  of  writers.  He 
is  so  frequently  greater  than  his  occasion, 
he  has  no  small  change  to  suit  emergencies, 
and  we  have  guineas  in  place  of  groats. 
Romeo  is  more  than  a  mortal  lover,  and 
jMercutio  more  than  a  mortal  wit ;  the  kings 
in  the  Shakspearian  world  are  more  kingly 
than  earthly  sovereigns  ;  Rosalind's  laughter 
was  never  heard  save  in  the  Forest  of  Arden. 
His  madmen  seem  to  have  eaten  of  some 
"  strange  root."  No  such  boon  companion 
as  Falstaff  ever  heard  chimes  at  midnight. 
His  very  clowns  are  transcendental,  with 
scraps  of  wisdom  springing  out  of  their  fool- 
ishest  speech,  Chaucer,  lacking  Shaks- 
peare's excess  and  prodigality  of  genius, 
could  not  so  gloriously  err,  and  his  creations 
have    a    harder,  drier,   more  realistic  look  ; 


Geoffrey   Cliaucer.  273 

are  more  like  the  people   we  hear  uttering 
ordinary  English  speech,  and  see  on  ordinary 
country    roads    against  an   ordinary  English 
sky.     If  need   were,  any  one  of  them  could 
drive  pigs  to  market.     Chaucer's  characters 
are   individual   enough,   their    idiosyncrasies 
are  sharply  enough  defined,  but  they  are  to 
some  extent  literal  and  prosaic  ;  they  are  of 
the  "  earth,  earthy  ;  "  out  of  his  imagination 
no  Ariel  ever    sprang,  no  half- human,  half- 
brutish    Caliban   ever  crept.     He  does  not 
effloresce    in    illustrations    and    images,   the 
flowers  do  not  hide  the  grass;  his  pictures 
are  masterpieces,  but  they  are  portraits,  and 
the  man  is  brought  out  by  a  multiplicity  of 
short  touches,  —  caustic,  satirical,  and  matter 
of  fact.     His  poetry  may  be  said  to  resemble 
an   English   country  road,  on  which  passen- 
gers of  different  degrees  of  rank  are  contin- 
ually passing,  —  now  knight,  now  boor,  now 
abbot :  Spenser's,   for  instance,  and   all  the 
more  fanciful  styles,  to  a  tapestry  on  which 
a  whole   Olympus  has  been  wrought.     The 
figures  on   the  tapestry  are  much  the  more 
noble-looking,  it  is  true  ;  but  then  they  are 
dreams  and  phantoms,  whereas  the  people 
on  the  country  road  actually  exist. 

The  "  Knight's  Tale  "  —  which  is  the  first 
told  on  the  way  to  Canterbury  —  is  a  chival- 
18 


2  74  Geoffrey  Chaucer. 

rous  legend,  full  of  hunting,  battle,  and 
tournament.  Into  it,  although  the  scene  is 
laid  in  Greece,  Chaucer  has,  with  a  fine  scorn 
of  anachronism,  poured  all  the  splendour, 
colour,  pomp,  and  circumstance  of  the  four- 
teenth century.  It  is  brilliant  as  a  banner 
displayed  to  the  sunlight.  It  is  real  cloth  of 
gold.  Compared  with  it,  "  Iv^anhoe  "  is  a 
spectacle  at  Astley's.  The  style  is  every- 
where more  adorned  than  is  usual,  although 
even  here,  and  in  the  richest  parts,  the  short, 
homely,  caustic  Chaucerian  line  is  largely 
employed.  The  "  Man  of  Law's  Tale,"  again, 
is  distinguished  by  quite  a  different  merit. 
It  relates  the  sorrows  and  patience  of  Con- 
stance, and  is  filled  with  the  beauty  of  holi- 
ness. Constance  might  have  been  sister  to 
Cordelia ;  she  is  one  of  the  white  lilies  of 
womanhood.  Her  story  is  almost  the  tender- 
est  in  our  literature.  And  Chaucer's  art 
comes  out  in  this,  that  although  she  would 
spread  her  hair,  nay,  put  her  very  heart  be- 
neath the  feet  of  those  who  wrong  her,  we 
do  not  cease  for  one  moment  to  respect  her. 
This  is  a  feat  which  has  but  seldom  been 
achieved.  It  has  long  been  a  matter  of  re- 
proach to  Mr.  Thackeray,  for  instance,  that 
the  only  faculty  with  which  he  gifts  his  good 
women  is  a   supreme  faculty  of  tears.     To 


Geoffrey   Chaucer.  275 

draw  any  very  high  degree  of  female  patience 
is  one  of  the  most  difficult  of  tasks.  If  you 
represent  a  woman  bearing  wrong  with  a 
continuous  unmurmuring  meekness,  pre- 
senting to  blows,  come  from  what  quarter 
they  may,  nothing  but  a  bent  neck,  and  eye- 
lids humbly  drooped,  you  are  in  nine  cases 
out  of  ten  painting  elaborately  the  portrait 
of  a  fool ;  and  if  you  miss  making  her  a  fool, 
you  are  certain  to  make  her  a  bore.  Your 
patient  woman,  in  books  and  in  life,  does 
not  draw  on  our  gratitude.  When  her  good- 
ness is  not  stupidity,  —  which  it  frequently  is, 
—  it  is  insulting.  She  walks  about  an  in- 
carnate rebuke.  Her  silence  is  an  incessant 
complaint.  A  teacup  thrown  at  your  head 
is  not  half  so  alarming  as  her  meek,  much- 
wronged,  unretorting  face.  You  begin  to 
suspect  that  she  consoles  herself  with  the 
thought  that  there  is  another  world,  where 
brutal  brothers  and  husbands  are  settled 
with  for  their  behaviour  to  their  angelic  wives 
and  sisters  in  this.  Chaucer's  Constance  is 
neither  fool  nor  bore,  although  in  the  hands 
of  anybody  else  she  would  have  been  one 
or  the  other,  or  both.  Like  the  holy  religion 
which  she  symbolises,  her  sweet  face  draws 
blessing  and  love  wherever  it  goes ;  it  heals 
old  wounds  with  its  beauty,  it  carries  peace 


276  Geoffrey   Chaucer. 

into  the  heart  of  discord,  it  touches  murder 
itself  into  soft  and  penitential  tears.  In 
reading  the  old  tender-hearted  poet,  we  feel 
that  there  is  something  in  a  woman's  sweet- 
ness and  forgiveness  that  the  masculine  mind 
cannot  fathom  ;  and  we  adore  the  hushed 
step  and  still  countenance  of  Constance 
almost  as  if  an  angel   passed. 

Chaucer's  orthography  is  unquestionably 
uncouth  at  first  sight ;  but  it  is  not  difficult 
to  read  if  you  keep  a  good  glossary  beside 
you  for  occasional  reference,  and  are  willing 
to  undergo  a  little  trouble.  The  language 
is  antique,  but  it  is  full  of  antique  flavour. 
Wine  of  excellent  vintage  originally,  it 
has  improved  through  all  the  years  it  has 
been  kept.  A  very  little  trouble  on  the 
reader's  part,  in  the  reign  of  Anne,  would 
have  made  him  as  intelligible  as  Addi- 
son ;  a  very  little  more,  in  the  reign  of 
Queen  Victoria,  will  make  him  more  in- 
telligible than  Mr.  Browning.  Yet  somehow 
it  has  been  a  favourite  idea  with  many  poets 
that  he  required  modernisation,  and  that 
they  were  the  men  to  do  it.  Dryden,  Pope, 
and  Wordsworth  have  tried  their  hands  on 
him.  Wordsworth  performed  his  work  in  a 
reverential  enough  spirit ;  but  it  may  be 
doubted    whether    his  efforts    have    brought 


Geoffrey   Chaucer.  277 

the  old  poet  a  single  new  reader.  Dryden 
and  Pope  did  not  translate  or  modernise 
Chaucer,  they  committed  assault  and  bat- 
tery upon  him.  They  turned  his  exquisitely 
naive  humour  into  their  own  coarseness,  they 
put  doubles  entendre  into  his  mouth,  they 
blurred  his  female  faces,  —  as  a  picture  is 
blurred  when  the  hand  of  a  Vandal  is  drawn 
over  its  yet  wet  colours,  —  and  they  turned 
his  natural  descriptions  into  the  natural 
descriptions  of  "Windsor  Forest"  and  the 
"  Fables."  The  grand  old  writer  does  not 
need  translation  or  modernisation ;  but  per- 
haps, if  it  be  done  at  all,  it  had  better  be 
reached  in  that  way.  For  the  benefit  of 
younger  readers,  I  subjoin  short  prose  ver- 
sions of  two  of  the  "  Canterbury  Tales,"  —  a 
story-book  than  which  the  world  does  not 
possess  a  better.  Listen,  then,  to  the  tale 
the  Knight  told  as  the  pilgrims  rode  to 
Canterbury  :  — 

"There  was  once,  as  old  stories  tell,  a 
certain  Duke  Theseus,  lord  and  governor  of 
xAthens.  The  same  was  a  great  warrior  and 
conqueror  of  realms.  He  defeated  the  Ama- 
zons, and  wedded  the  queen  of  that  country, 
Hypolita.  After  his  marriage,  the  duke,  his 
wife,  and  his  sister  Emily,  with  all  their 
host,  were  riding  towards  Athens,  when  they 


278  Geoffrey  Chaucer. 

were  aware  that  a  company  of  ladies,  clad 
in  black,  were  kneeling  two  by  two  on  the 
highway,  wringing  their  hands  and  filling  the 
air  with  lamentations.  The  duke,  beholding 
this  piteous  sight,  reined  in  his  steed  and 
inquired  the  reason  of  their  grief.  Whereat 
one  of  the  ladies,  queen  to  the  slain  King 
Capeneus,  told  him  that  at  the  siege  of 
Thebes  (of  which  town  they  were),  Creon, 
the  conqueror,  had  thrown  the  bodies  of 
their  husbands  in  a  heap,  and  would  on  no 
account  allow  them  to  be  buried,  so  that 
their  limbs  were  mangled  by  vultures  and 
wild  beasts.  At  the  hearing  of  this  great 
wrong,  the  duke  started  down  from  his  horse, 
took  the  ladies  one  by  one  in  his  arms  and 
comforted  them,  sent  Hypolita  and  Emily 
home,  displayed  his  great  white  banner,  and 
immediately  rode  towards  Thebes  with  his 
host.  Arriving  at  the  city,  he  attacked 
boldly,  slew  the  tyrant  Creon  with  his  own 
hand,  tore  down  the  houses,  —  wall,  roof, 
and  rafter,  —  and  then  gave  the  bodies  to 
the  weeping  ladies  that  they  might  be  hon- 
ourably interred.  While  searching  amongst 
the  slain  I'hebans,  two  young  knights  were 
found  grievously  wounded,  and  by  the  rich- 
ness of  their  armour  they  were  known  to  be 
of   the  blood  royal.     These   young    knights, 


Geoffrey  Chaucer.  279 

Palanion  and  Arcite  by  name,  the  duke 
carried  to  Athens  and  flung  into  perpetual 
prison.  Here  they  lived  year  by  year  in 
mourning  and  woe.  It  happened  one  May 
morning  that  Palamon,  who  by  the  clemency 
of  his  keeper  was  roaming  about  in  an  upper 
chamber,  looked  out  and  beheld  Emily 
singing  in  the  garden  and  gathering  flowers. 
At  the  sight  of  the  beautiful  apparition  he 
started  and  cried,  '  Ha  ! '  Arcite  rose  up, 
crying,  'Dear  cousin,  what  is  the  matter?' 
when  he  too  was  stricken  to  the  heart  by  the 
shaft  of  her  beauty.  Then  the  prisoners 
began  to  dispute  as  to  which  had  the  better 
right  to  love  her,  Palamon  said  he  had  seen 
her  first ;  Arcite  said  that  in  love  each  man 
fought  for  himself;  and  so  they  disputed  day 
by  day.  Now,  it  so  happened  that  at  this 
time  the  Duke  Perotheus  came  to  visit  his 
old  playfellow  and  friend  Theseus,  and  at  his 
intercession  Arcite  was  liberated,  on  the  con- 
dition that  on  pain  of  death  he  should  never 
again  be  found  in  the  Athenian  dominions. 
Then  the  two  knights  grieved  in  their  hearts. 
'What  matters  liberty?'  said  Arcite,  —  'I 
am  a  banished  man  !  Palamon  in  his 
dungeon  is  happier  than  I.  He  can  see 
Emily  and  be  gladdened  by  her  beauty  !  ' 
'  Woe  is  me  ! '  said  Palamon  ;  '  here  must  I 


28o  Geoffrey  Chancer. 

remain  in  durance.  Arcite  is  abroad ;  he 
may  make  sharp  war  on  the  Athenian  bor- 
der, and  win  Emily  by  the  sword.'  When 
Arcite  returned  to  his  native  city  he  became 
so  thin  and  pale  with  sorrow  that  his  friends 
scarcely  knew  him.  One  night  the  god 
Mercury  appeared  to  him  in  a  dream  and 
told  him  to  return  to  Athens,  for  in  that  city 
destiny  had  shaped  an  end  of  his  woes.  He 
arose  next  morning  and  went.  He  entered 
as  a  menial  into  the  service  of  the  Duke 
Theseus,  and  in  a  short  time  was  promoted 
to  be  page  of  the  chamber  to  Emily  the 
bright.  Meanwhile,  by  the  help  of  a  friend, 
Palamon,  who  had  drugged  his  jailer  with 
spiced  wine,  made  his  escape,  and,  as  morn- 
ing began  to  dawn,  he  hid  himself  in  a 
grove.  That  very  morning  Arcite  had  rid- 
den from  Athens  to  gather  some  green 
branches  to  do  honour  to  the  month  of  May, 
and  entered  the  grove  in  which  Palamon  was 
concealed.  When  he  had  gathered  his  green 
branches  he  sat  down,  and,  after  the  manner 
of  lovers  (who  have  no  constancy  of  spirits), 
he  began  to  pour  forth  his  sorrows  to  the 
empty  air.  Palamon,  knowing  his  voice, 
started  up  with  a  white  face  :  '  False  traitor 
Arcite  !  now  I  have  found  thee.  Thou  hast 
deceived  the  I  )uke  'l'h<'scus  !   T  am  the  lover  of 


Geoffrey  Chaucer.  281 

Emily,  and  thy  mortal  foe  !  Had  I  a  weapon, 
one  of  us  should  never  leave  this  grove 
alive  ! '  'By  (iod,  whq  sitteth  above  ! '  cried 
the  fierce  Arcite,  '  were  it  not  that  thou  art 
sick  and  mad  for  love,  I  would  slay  thee 
here  with  my  own  hand  !  Meats,  and  drinks, 
and  bedding  I  shall  bring  thee  to-night,  to- 
morrow swords  and  two  suits  of  armour: 
take  thou  the  better,  leave  me  the  worse, 
and  then  let  us  see  who  can  win  the  lady.' 
'Agreed,'  said  Palamon ;  and  Arcite  rode 
away  in  great  fierqe  joy  of  heart.  Next 
morning,  at  the  crowing  of  the  cock,  Arcite 
placed  two  suits  of  armour  before  him  on  his 
horse,  and  rode  towards  the  grove.  When 
they  met,  the  colour  of  their  faces  changed. 
Each  thought,  '  Here  comes  my  mortal 
enemy ;  one  of  us  must  be  dead.'  Then, 
friend-like,  as  if  they  had  been  brothers, 
they  assisted  each  the  other  to  rivet  on  the 
armour ;  that  done,  the  great  bright  swords 
went  to  and  fro,  and  they  were  soon  stand- 
ing ankle-deep  in  blood.  That  same  morn- 
ing the  Duke  Theseus,  his  wife,  and 
Emily  went  forth  to  hunt  the  hart  with 
hound  and  horn,  and,  as  destiny  ordered  it, 
the  chase  led  them  to  the  very  grove  in 
which  the  knights  were  fighting.  Theseus, 
shading  his  eyes  from  the  sunlight  with  his 


282  Geoffrey   Chaucer. 

hand,  saw  them,  and,  spurring  his  horse 
between  them,  cried,  '  What  manner  of  men 
are  ye,  fighting  here  without  judge  or  officer  ?  ' 
Whereupon  Palamon  said,  '  I  am  that  Pala- 
mon  who  has  broken  your  prison ;  this  is 
Arcite  the  banished  man,  who,  by  returning 
to  Athens,  has  forfeited  his  head.  Do  with 
us  as  you  Hst.  I  have  no  more  to  say.' 
'  You  have  condemned  yourselves  !  '  cried 
the  duke  ;  '  by  mighty  Mars  the  red,  both 
of  you  shall  die  ! '  Then  Emily  and  the 
queen  fell  at  his  feet,  and,  with  prayers  and 
tears  and  white  hands  lifted  up,  besought  the 
lives  of  the  young  knights,  which  was  soon 
granted.  Theseus  began  to  laugh  when  he 
thought  of  his  own  young  days.  '  What  a 
mighty  god  is  Love  ! '  quoth  he.  *  Here  are 
Palamon  and  Arcite  fighting  for  my  sister, 
while  they  know  she  can  only  marry  one. 
Fight  they  ever  so  much,  she  cannot  marry 
both.  I  therefore  ordain  that  both  of  you 
go  away,  and  return  this  day  year,  each 
bringing  with  him  a  hundred  knights ;  and 
let  the  victor  in  solemn  tournament  have 
Emily  for  wife.'  Who  was  glad  now  but 
Palamon  !  who  sprang  up  for  joy  but  Arcite  ! 
"  When  the  twelve  months  had  nearly 
passed  away,  there  was  in  Athens  a  great 
noise  of  workmen  and  hammers.     The  duke 


Geoffrey   Chaucer.  283 

was  busy  with  preparations.  He  built  a 
large  amphitheatre,  seated,  round  and 
round,  to  hold  thousands  of  people.  He 
erected  also  three  temples,  —  one  for  Diana, 
one  for  Mars,  one  for  Venus :  how  rich 
these  were,  how  full  of  paintings  and  images, 
the  tongue  cannot  tell  !  Never  was  such 
preparation  made  in  the  world.  At  last  the 
day  arrived  in  which  the  knights  were  to 
make  their  entrance  into  the  city.  A  noise 
of  trumpets  was  heard,  and  through  the  city 
rode  Palamon  and  his  train.  With  him  came 
Lycurgus,  the  king  of  Thrace.  He  stood  in 
a  great  car  of  gold,  drawn  by  four  white 
bulls,  and  his  face  was  like  a  grififin  wlien  he 
looked  about.  Twenty  or  more  hounds 
used  for  hunting  the  lion  and  the  bear  ran 
about  the  wheels  of  his  car ;  at  his  back 
rode  a  hundred  lords,  stern  and  stout. 
Another  burst  of  trumpets,  and  Arcite  en- 
tered with  his  troop.  By  his  side  rode 
Emetrius,  the  king  of  India,  on  a  bay  steed 
covered  with  cloth  of  gold.  His  hair  was 
yellow,  and  glittered  like  the  sun  ;  when  he 
looked  upon  the  people,  they  thought  his 
face  was  like  the  face  of  a  lion  ;  his  voice 
was  like  the  thunder  of  a  trumpet.  He  bore 
a  white  eagle  on  his  wrist,  and  tame  lions 
and  leopards  ran  among  the   horses  of  his 


284  Geoffrey   Chaucer. 

train.  They  came  to  the  city  on  a  Sunday 
morning,  and  the  jousts  were  to  begin  on 
Monday.  What  pricking  of  squires  back- 
wards and  forwards,  what  clanking  of  ham- 
mers, what  baying  of  hounds,  that  day  !  At 
last  it  was  noon  of  Monday.  Theseus  de- 
clared from  his  throne  that  no  blood  was  to 
be  shed,  that  they  should  take  prisoners 
only,  and  that  he  who  was  once  taken  pris- 
oner should  on  no  account  again  mingle  in 
the  fray.  Then  the  duke,  the  queen, 
Emily,  and  the  rest,  rode  to  the  lists  with 
trumpets  and  melody.  They  had  no  sooner 
taken  their  places  than  through  the  gate  of 
Mars  rode  Arcite  and  his  hundred,  display- 
ing a  red  banner.  At  the  self-same  moment 
Palamon  and  his  company  entered  by  the 
gate  of  Venus,  with  a  banner  white  as  milk. 
They  were  then  arranged  in  two  ranks, 
their  names  were  called  over,  the  gates  were 
shut,  the  herald  gave  his  cry,  loud  and  clear 
rang  the  trumpet,  and  crash  went  the  spears, 
as  if  made  of  glass,  when  the  knights  met  in 
battle  shock.  There  might  you  see  a  knight 
unhorsed,  a  second  crushing  his  way 
through  the  press,  armed  with  a  mighty 
mace,  a  third  hurt  and  taken  prisoner. 
Many  a  time  that  day  in  the  swaying  battle 
did  the  two  Thebans  meet,  and  thrice  were 


Geoffrey   Chaucer.  285 

they  unhorsed.  At  last,  near  the  setting  of 
the  sun,  when  Palamon  was  fighting  with 
Arcite,  he  was  wounded  by  Emetrius,  and 
the  battle  thickened  at  the  place.  Emetrius 
is  thrown  out  of  his  saddle  a  spear's  length. 
Lycurgus  is  overthrown,  and  rolls  on  the 
ground,  horse  and  man ;  and  Palamon  is 
dragged  by  main  force  to  the  stake.  Then 
Theseus  rose  up  where  he  sat,  and  cried, 
'  Ho  !  no  more  ;  Arcite  of  Thebes  hath  won 
Emily  ! '  at  which  the  people  shouted  so 
loudly  that  it  almost  seemed  the  mighty 
lists  would  fall.  Arcite  now  put  up  his  hel- 
met, and,  curveting  his  horse  through  the 
open  space,  smiled  to  Emily,  when  a  fire 
from  Pluto  started  out  of  the  earth ;  the 
horse  shied,  and  his  rider  was  thrown  on  his 
head  on  the  ground.  When  he  was  lifted, 
his  breast  was  broken,  and  his  face  was  as 
black  as  coal.  Then  there  was  grief  in 
Athens  ;  every  one  wept.  Soon  after,  Arcite, 
feeling  the  cold  death  creeping  up  from  his 
feet  and  darkening  his  face  and  eyes,  called 
Palamon  and  Emily  to  his  bedside,  when  he 
joined  their  hands,  and  died.  The  dead  body 
was  laid  on  a  pile,  dressed  in  splendid  war 
gear  ;  his  naked  sword  was  placed  by  his  side  ; 
the  pile  was  heaped  with  gums,  frankincense, 
and  odours  ;  a  torch  was  applied  ;  and  when 


286  Geoffrey   Chancer. 

the  flames  rose  up,  and  the  smoky  fragrance 
rolled  to  heaven,  the  Greeks  galloped  round 
three  times,  with  a  great  shouting  and 
clashing  of  shields." 

The  Man  of  Law's  tale  runs  in  this  wise  : 
''  There  dwelt  in  Syria  once  a  company  of 
merchants,  who  scented  every  land  with 
their  spices.  They  dealt  in  jewels,  and  cloth 
of  gold,  and  sheeny  satins.  It  so  happened 
that  while  some  of  them  were  dwelling  in 
Rome  for  traffic,  the  people  talked  of  noth- 
ing save  the  wonderful  beauty  of  Con- 
stance, the  daughter  of  the  emperor.  She 
was  so  fair  that  every  one  who  looked  upon 
her  face  fell  in  love  with  her.  In  a  short 
time  the  ships  of  the  merchants,  laden  with 
rich  wares,  were  furrowing  the  green  sea, 
going  home.  When  they  came  to  their  na- 
tive city  they  could  talk  of  nothing  but  the 
marvellous  beauty  of  Constance.  Their 
words  being  reported  to  the  Sultan,  he  de- 
termined that  none  other  siiould  be  his  wife; 
and  for  this  purpose  he  abandoned  the  reli- 
gion of  the  false  prophet,  and  was  baptised 
in  the  Christian  faith.  Ambassadors  passed 
between  the  courts,  and  the  day  came  at 
length  when  Constance  was  to  leave  Rome 
for  her  husband's  palace  in  Syria.  What 
kisses   and.  tears   and    lingering   embraces  1 


Geoffrey   Chaucer.  287 

What  blessings  on  the  httle  golden  head 
which  was  so  soon  to  lie  in  the  bosom  of  a 
stranger  !  What  state  and  solemnity  in  the 
procession  which  wound  down  from  the 
shore  to  the  ship  !  At  last  it  was  Syria. 
Crowds  of  people  were  standing  on  the 
beach.  The  mother  of  the  Sultan  was  there  ; 
and  when  Constance  stepped  ashore,  she 
took  her  in  her  arms  and  kissed  her  as  if  she 
had  been  her  own  child.  Soon  after,  with 
trumpets  and  melody  and  the  trampling  of  in- 
numerable horses,  the  Sultan  came.  Every- 
thing was  joy  and  happiness.  But  the  smiling 
demoness,  his  mother,  could  not  forgive  him 
for  changing  his  faith,  and  she  resolved  to 
slay  him  that  very  night,  and  seize  the  gov- 
ernment of  the  kingdom.  He  and  all  his 
lords  were  stabbed  in  the  rich  hall  while 
they  were  sitting  at  their  wine.  Constance 
alone  escaped.  She  was  then  put  into  a 
ship  alone,  with  food  and  clothes,  and  told 
that  she  might  find  her  way  back  to  Italy. 
She  sailed  away,  and  was  never  seen  by  that 
people.  For  five  years  she  wandered  to  and 
fro  upon  the  sea.  Do  you  ask  who  pre- 
served her?  The  same  God  who  fed  Elijah 
with  ravens,  and  saved  Daniel  in  the  horri- 
ble den.  At  last  she  floated  into  the  English 
seas,  and  was  thrown  by  the  waves  on  the 


288  Geoffrey   Chaucer. 

Northumberland  shore,  near  which  stood  a 
great  castle.  The  constable  of  the  castle 
came  down  in  the  morning  to  see  the  woful 
woman.  She  spoke  a  kind  of  corrupt  Latin, 
and  could  neither  tell  her  name  nor  the 
name  of  the  country  of  which  she  was  a  na- 
tive. She  said  she  was  so  bewildered  in  the 
sea  that  she  remembered  nothing.  The  man 
could  not  help  loving  her,  and  so  took  her 
home  to  live  with  himself  and  his  wife.  Now, 
through  the  example  and  teaching  of  Con- 
stance, Dame  Hermigild  was  converted  to 
Christianity.  It  happened  also  that  three 
aged  Christian  Britons  were  living  near  that 
place  in  great  fear  of  their  pagan  neigh- 
bours, and  one  of  these  men  was  blind. 
One  day,  as  the  constable,  his  wife,  and  Con- 
stance were  walking  along  the  sea-shore, 
they  were  met  by  the  blind  man,  who  called 
out,  '  In  the  name  of  Christ,  give  me  my 
sight,  Dame  Hermigild  !  '  At  this,  on  ac- 
count of  her  husband,  she  was  sore  afraid ; 
but,  encouraged  by  Constance,  she  wrought 
a  great  miracle,  and  gave  the  blind  man  his 
sight.  But  Satan,  the  enemy  of  all,  wanted 
to  destroy  Constance,  and  he  employed  a 
young  knight  for  that  purpose.  This  knight 
had  loved  her  with  a  foul  affection,  to  which 
she  could  give  no  return.     At  last,  wild  for 


Geoffrey   Chaucer.  289 

revenge,  he  crept  at  night  into  Hermigild's 
chamber,  slew  her,  and  laid  the  bloody  knife 
on  the  innocent  pillow  of  Constance.  The 
next  morning  there  was  woe  and  dolour  in 
the  house.  She  was  brought  before  Alia, 
the  king,  charged  with  the  murder.  The 
people  could  not  believe  that  she  had  done 
this  thing ;  they  knew  she  loved  Hermigild 
so.  Constance  fell  down  on  her  knees  and 
prayed  to  God  for  succour.  Have  you  ever 
been  in  a  crowd  in  which  a  man  is  being  led 
to  death,  and,  seeing  a  wild,  pale  face,  know 
by  that  sign  that  you  are  looking  upon  the 
doomed  creature?  — so  wild,  so  pale  looked 
Constance  when  she  stood  before  the  king 
and  people.  The  tears  ran  down  Alla's  face. 
'  Go  fetch  a  book/  cried  he ;  '  and  if  this 
knight  swears  that  the  woman  is  guilty,  she 
shall  surely  die.'  The  book  was  brought, 
the  knight  took  the  oath,  and  that  moment 
an  unseen  hand  smote  him  on  the  neck,  so 
that  he  fell  down  on  the  floor,  his  eyes 
bursting  out  of  his  head.  Then  a  celestial 
voice  was  heard  in  the  midst,  crying,  '  Thou 
hast  slandered  a  daughter  of  Holy  Church 
in  high  presence,  and  yet  I  hold  my  peace.' 
A  great  awe  fell  on  all  who  heard,  and  the 
king  and  multitudes  of  his  people  were  con- 
verted. Shortly  after  this,  Alia  wedded 
19 


290  Geoffrey   Chance^-. 

Constance  with  great  richness  and  solem- 
nity. At  length  he  was  called  to  defend  his 
border  against  the  predatory  Scots,  and  in 
his  absence  a  man-child  was  born.  A  mes- 
senger was  sent  with  the  blissful  tidings  to 
the  king's  camp  ;  but,  on  his  way,  the  mes- 
senger turned  aside  to  the  dwelling  of  Don- 
egild,  the  king's  mother,  and  said,  '  Be  blithe, 
madam  ;  the  queen  has  given  birth  to  a  son, 
and  joy  is  in  the  land.  Here  is  the  letter 
I  bear  to  the  king.'  The  wicked  Donegild 
said,  '  You  must  be  already  tired  ;  here  are 
refreshments.'  And  while  the  simple  man 
drank  ale  and  wine,  she  forged  a  letter,  say- 
ing that  the  queen  had  been  delivered  of  a 
creature  so  fiendish  and  horrible  that  no  one 
in  the  castle  could  bear  to  look  upon  it. 
This  letter  the  messenger  gave  to  the  king ; 
and  who  can  tell  his  grief !  But  he  wrote  in 
reply,  'Welcome  be  the  child  that  Christ 
sends  !  Welcome,  O  Lord,  be  thy  pleasure  ! 
Be  careful  of  my  wife  and  child  till  my  re- 
turn.' The  messenger  on  his  return  slept  at 
Donegild'  s  court,  with  the  letter  under  his 
girdle.  It  was  stolen  while  in  his  drunken 
sleep,  and  another  put  in  its  place,  charging 
the  constable  not  to  let  Constance  remain 
three  days  in  the  kingdom,  but  to  send  her 
and    her   child    away    in   the  same  ship  in 


Geoffrey   Chaucer.  291 

which  she  had  come.  The  constable  could 
not  help  himself.  Thousands  are  gathered 
on  the  shore.  With  a  face  wild  and  pale  as 
when  she  came  from  the  sea,  and  bearing  her 
crying  infant  in  her  arms,  she  comes  through 
the  crowd,  which  shrinks  back,  leaving  a 
lane  for  her  sorrow.  She  takes  her  seat  in 
the  little  boat ;  and  while  the  cruel  people 
gaze  hour  by  hour  from  the  shore,  she  passes 
into  the  sunset,  and  away  out  into  the  night 
under  the  stars.  When  Alia  returned  from 
the  war,  and  found  how  he  had  been  de- 
ceived, he  slew  his  mother,  in  the  bitterness 
of  his  heart. 

"  News  had  come  to  Rome  of  the  cruelty 
of  the  Sultan's  mother  to  Constance,  and  an 
army  was  sent  to  waste  her  country.  After 
the  land  had  been  burned  and  desolated,  the 
commander  was  crossing  the  seas  in  triumph, 
when  he  met  the  ship  sailing  in  which  sat 
Constance  and  her  little  boy.  They  were 
both  brought  to  Rome,  and  although  the 
commander's  wife  and  Constance  were  cou- 
sins, the  one  did  not  know  the  other.  By 
this  time,  remorse  for  the  slaying  of  his 
mother  had  seized  Alla's  mind,  and  he  could 
find  no  rest.  He  resolved  to  make  a  pil- 
grimage to  Rome  in  search  of  peace.  He 
crossed  the  Alps  with  his  train,  and  entered 


292  Geoffi'ey   Ch  a  ucer. 

the  city  with  great  glory  and  magnificence. 
One    day  he    feasted    at    the    commander's 
house,    at    which    Constance    dwelt ;     and 
at   her  request  her  little  son  was  admitted, 
and    during  the    progress    of  the   feast   the 
child  went  and  stood  looking  in  the  king's 
face.     '  What  fair  child  is  that  standing  yon- 
der?' said  the  king.     'By  St.  John,  I  know 
not  !  '    quoth   the    commander  ;    '  he   has  a 
mother,  but  no  father  that  I  know  of.'     And 
then  he  told  the  king  —  who  seemed  all  the 
while    like    a   man    stunned  —  how   he    had 
found  the  mother  and    child  floating  about 
on  the  sea.     The  king  rose  from  the  table 
and   sent  for  Constance ;   and  when  he   saw 
her,  and  thought  on  all  her  wrongs,  he  could 
not   refrain  from  tears.     '  This  is  your  little 
son,  Maurice,'  she  said,  as  she  led  him  in  by 
the   hand.     Next  day   she  met  the  emperor 
her  father  in  the  street,  and,  falling  down  on 
her  knees  before  him,  said,  '  Father,  has  the 
remembrance  of  your  young  child  Constance 
gone   out  of   your  mind?     I  am  that  Con- 
stance   whom    you  sent  to  Syria,  and    who 
was  thought  to  be  lost   in  the  sea.'     That 
day  there  was  great  joy  in  Rome  ;  and  soon 
afterwards   Alia,  with  his  wife  and  child,  re- 
turned to  England,  where  they  lived  in  great 
prosperity  till  he  died." 


V 

D 


!OST  men  seek  solitude  from 
wounded  vanity,  from  disap- 
pointed ambition,  from  a  miscar- 
riage in  the  passions;  but  some 
others  from  native  instinct,  as  a  duckling 
seeks  water.  I  have  taken  to  my  solitude, 
such  as  it  is,  from  an  indolent  turn  of  mind  ; 
and  this  solitude  I  sweeten  by  an  imagina- 
tive sympathy  which  re-creates  the  past  for 
me,  —  the  past  of  the  world,  as  well  as  the 
past  which  belongs  to  me  as  an  individual,  — 
and  which  makes  me  independent  of  the 
passing  moment.  I  see  every  one  struggling 
after  the  unattainable,  but  I  struggle  not, 
and  so  spare  myself  the  pangs  of  disap- 
pointment and  disgust.  I  have  no  ventures 
at  sea,  and,  consequently,  do  not  fear  the 
arrival  of  evil  tidings.  I  have  no  desire  to 
act  any  prominent  part  in  the  world,  but  I 
am  devoured  by  an  unappeasable  curiosity 
as  to   the  men  who   do  act.     I  am  not  an 


294  Books  and  Gardens. 

actor,  I  am  a  spectator  only.  My  sole  occu- 
pation is  sight-seeing.  In  a  certain  imperial 
idleness,  I  amuse  myself  with  the  world. 
Ambition  !  \\'hat  do  I  care  for  ambition  ? 
The  oyster  with  much  pain  produces  its 
pearl.  I  take  the  pearl.  Why  should  I  pro- 
duce one  after  this  miserable,  painful  fash- 
ion? It  would  be  but  a  flawed  one,  at  best. 
These  pearls  I  can  pick  up  by  the  dozen. 
The  production  of  them  is  going  on  all 
around  me,  and  there  will  be  a  nice  crop  for 
the  solitary  man  of  the  next  century.  Look 
at  a  certain  silent  emperor,  for  instance  :  a 
hundred  years  hence  his  pearl  will  be  handed 
about  from  hand  to  hand  ;  will  be  curiously 
scrutinised  and  valued  ;  will  be  set  in  its 
place  in  the  world's  cabinet.  I  confess  I 
should  like  to  see  the  completion  of  that 
filmy  orb.  Will  it  be  pure  in  colour?  Will 
its  purity  be  marred  by  an  ominous  bloody 
streak?  Of  this  I  am  certain,  that  in  the 
cabinet  in  which  the  world  keeps  these  pe- 
culiar treasures,  no  one  will  be  looked  at 
more  frequently,  or  will  provoke  a  greater 
variety  of  opinions  as  to  its  intrinsic  worth. 
Why  should  I  be  ambitious?  Shall  I  write 
verses?  I  am  not  likely  to  surpass  Mr.  Ten- 
nyson or  Mr.  Browning  in  that  walk.  Shall 
1    be   a  musician?     The    blackbird    singing 


Books  and  Gardens.  295 

this  moment  somewhere  in  my  garden 
shrubbery  puts  me  to  instant  shame.  Shall 
I  paint?  The  intensest  scarlet  on  an  artist's 
palette  is  but  ochre  to  that  I  saw  this  morn- 
ing at  sunrise.  No,  no  ;  let  me  enjoy  Mr. 
Tennyson's  verse,  and  the  blackbird's  song, 
and  the  colours  of  sunrise,  but  do  not  let  me 
emulate  them.  I  am  happier  as  it  is.  I  do 
not  need  to  make  history, —  there  are  plenty 
of  people  willing  to  save  me  trouble  on  that 
score.  The  cook  makes  the  dinner,  the 
guest  eats  it ;  and  the  last,  not  without  rea- 
son, is  considered  the  happier  man. 

In  my  garden  I  spend  my  days  ;  in  my 
library  I  spend  my  nights.  My  interests  are 
divided  between  my  geraniums  and  my 
books.  With  the  flower  I  am  in  the  present ; 
with  the  book  I  am  in  the  past.  I  go  into 
my  library,  and  all  history  unrolls  before 
me.  I  breathe  the  morning  air  of  the  world 
while  the  scent  of  Eden's  roses  yet  lingered 
in  it,  while  it  vibrated  only  to  the  world's 
first  brood  of  nightingales,  and  to  the  laugh 
of  Eve.  I  see  the  Pyramids  building  ;  I  hear 
the  shoutings  of  the  armies  of  Alexander  ;  I 
feel  the  ground  shake  beneath  the  march  of 
Cambyses.  I  sit  as  in  a  theatre,  —  the  stage 
is  time,  the  play  is  the  play  of  the  world. 
What  a  spectacle  it  is  !     What  kingly  pomp, 


296  Books  and  Gardens. 

what  processions  file  past,  what  cities  burn 
to  heaven,  what  crowds  of  captives  are 
dragged  at  the  chariot-wheels  of  conquerors  ! 
I  hiss,  or  cry  "  Bravo,"  when  the  great  actors 
come  on  the  shaking  stage.  I  am  a  Roman 
emperor  when  I  look  at  a  Roman  coin.  I 
lift  Homer,  and  I  shout  with  Achilles  in  the 
trenches.  The  silence  of  the  unpeopled  Syr- 
ian plains,  the  out-comings  and  in-goings  of 
the  patriarchs,  Abraham  and  Ishmael,  Isaac 
in  the  fields  at  eventide,  Rebekah  at  the 
well,  Jacob's  guile,  Esau's  face  reddened  by 
desert  sun-heat,  Joseph's  splendid  funeral 
procession,  —  all  these  things  I  find  within 
the  boards  of  my  Old  Testament.  What  a 
silence  in  those  old  books  as  of  a  half-peo- 
pled world ;  what  bleating  of  flocks ;  what 
green  pastoral  rest ;  what  indubitable  hu- 
man existence  !  Across  brawling  centuries 
of  blood  and  war  I  hear  the  bleating  of 
Abraham's  flocks,  the  tinkling  of  the  bells 
of  Rebekah's  camels.  O  men  and  women  so 
far  separated  yet  so  near,  so  strange  yet 
so  well  known,  by  what  miraculous  power 
do  I  know  ye  all !  Books  are  the  true  Elys- 
ian  fields,  where  the  spirits  of  the  dead  con- 
verse ;  and  into  these  fields  a  mortal  may 
venture  unappalled.  What  king's  court  can 
boast  such  company?     What  school  of  phi- 


Books  and  Gardens.  297 

losophy  such  wisdom  ?  The  wit  of  the  an- 
cient world  is  glancing  and  flashing  there. 
There  is  Pan's  pipe,  there  are  the  songs  of 
Apollo.  Seated  in  my  library  at  night,  and 
looking  on  the  silent  faces  of  my  books,  I 
am  occasionally  visited  by  a  strange  sense 
of  the  supernatural.  They  are  not  collec- 
tions of  printed  pages,  they  are  ghosts.  I 
take  one  down,  and  it  speaks  with  me  in  a 
tongue  not  now  heard  on  earth,  and  of  men 
and  things  of  which  it  alone  possesses 
knowledge.  I  call  myself  a  solitary,  but 
sometimes  I  think  I  misapply  the  term.  No 
man  sees  more  company  than  I  do.  I  travel 
with  mightier  cohorts  around  me  than  ever 
did  Timour  or  Genghis  Khan  on  their  fiery 
marches.  I  am  a  sovereign  in  my  library, 
but  it  is  the  dead,  not  the  living,  that  attend 
my  levees. 

The  house  I  dwell  in  stands  apart  from 
the  little  town,  and  relates  itself  to  the 
houses  as  I  do  to  the  inhabitants.  It  sees 
everything,  but  is  itself  unseen,  or,  at  all 
events,  unregarded.  My  study-window  looks 
down  upon  Dreamthorp  like  a  meditative 
eye.  Without  meaning  it,  I  feel  I  am  a  spy 
on  the  on-goings  of  the  quiet  place.  Around 
my  house  there  is  an  old-fashioned  rambling 
garden,  with  close-shaven  grassy  plots,  and 


298  Books  and   Gardens. 

fantastically  clipped  yews  which  have  gath- 
ered their  darkness  from  a  hundred  sum- 
mers and  winters ;  and  sun-dials  in  which 
the  sun  is  constantly  telling  his  age ;  and 
statues  green  with  neglect  and  the  stains  of 
the  weather.  The  garden  I  love  more  than 
any  place  on  earth ;  it  is  a  better  study  than 
the  room  inside  the  house  which  is  dignified 
by  that  name.  I  like  to  pace  its  gravelled 
walks,  to  sit  in  the  moss-house,  which  is 
warm  and  cosey  as  a  bird's  nest,  and  wherein 
twilight  dwells  at  noonday ;  to  enjoy  the 
feast  of  colour  spread  for  me  in  the  curiously 
shaped  floral  spaces.  My  garden,  with  its 
silence  and  the  pulses  of  fragrance  that 
come  and  go  on  the  airy  undulations,  affects 
me  like  sweet  music.  Care  stops  at  the 
gates,  and  gazes  at  me  wistfully  through  the 
bars.  Among  my  flowers  and  trees  Nature 
lakes  me  into  her  own  hands,  and  I  breathe 
freely  as  the  first  man.  It  is  curious,  pa- 
thetic almost,  I  sometimes  think,  how  deeply 
seated  in  the  human  heart  is  the  liking  for 
gardens  and  gardening.  The  sickly  seam- 
stress in  the  narrow  city  lane  tends  her  box 
of  sicklier  mignonette.  The  retired  mer- 
chant is  as  fond  of  tulips  as  ever  was  Dutch- 
man during  the  famous  mania.  The  author 
finds  a  garden  the  best  place  to  think  out 


Books  and  Gardetis.  299 

his  thought.  In  the  disabled  statesman 
every  restless  throb  of  regret  or  ambition  is 
stilled  when  he  looks  upon  his  blossomed 
apple-trees.  Is  the  fancy  too  far  brought 
that  this  love  for  gardens  is  a  reminiscence 
haunting  the  race  of  that  remote  time  in  the 
world's  dawn  when  but  two  persons  existed, 
—  a  gardener  named  Adam,  and  a  gardener's 
wife  called  Eve? 

When  I  walk  out  of  my  house  into  my 
garden  I  walk  out  of  my  habitual  self,  my 
every- day  thoughts,  my  customariness  of 
joy  or  sorrow  by  which  I  recognise  and  as- 
sure myself  of  my  own  identity.  These 
I  leave  behind  me  for  a  time,  as  the  bather 
leaves  his  garments  on  the  beach.  This 
piece  of  garden -ground,  in  extent  barely  a 
square  acre,  is  a  kingdom  with  its  own  inter- 
ests, annals,  and  incidents.  Something  is 
always  happening  in  it.  To-day  is  always  dif- 
ferent from  yesterday.  This  spring  a  chaf- 
finch built  a  nest  in  one  of  my  yew-trees. 
The  particular  yew  wiiich  the  bird  did  me 
the  honour  to  select  had  been  clipped  long 
ago  into  a  similitude  of  Adam,  and,  in  fact, 
went  by  his  name.  The  resemblance  to  a 
human  figure  was,  of  course,  remote,  but  the 
intention  was  evident.  In  the  black  shock 
head  of  our  first  parent  did  the  birds  estab- 


300  Books  and  Gardens. 

lish  their  habitation.  A  prettier,  rounder, 
more  comfortable  nest  I  never  saw,  and 
many  a  wild  swing  it  got  when  Adam  bent 
his  back,  and  bobbed  and  shook  his  head 
when  the  bitter  east  wind  was  blowing.  The 
nest  interested  me,  and  I  visited  it  every 
day  from  the  time  the  first  stained  turquoise 
sphere  was  laid  in  the  warm  lining  of  moss 
and  horse-hair,  till,  when  I  chirped,  four  red 
hungry  throats,  eager  for  worm  or  slug, 
opened  out  of  a  confused  mass  of  feathery 
down.  What  a  hungry  brood  it  was,  to  be 
sure,  and  how  often  father  and  mother  were 
put  to  it  to  provide  them  sustenance  !  I 
went  but  the  other  day  to  have  a  peep,  and, 
behold  !  brood  and  parent-birds  were  gone, 
the  nest  was  empty,  Adam's  visitors  had  de- 
parted. In  the  corners  of  my  bedroom  win- 
dow I  have  a  couple  of  swallows'  nests,  and 
nothing  can  be  pleasanter  in  these  summer 
mornings  than  to  lie  in  a  kind  of  half-dream, 
conscious  all  the  time  of  the  chatlerings  and 
endearments  of  the  man-loving  creatures. 
They  are  beautifully  restless,  and  are  con- 
tinually darting  around  their  nests  in  the 
window-corners.  All  at  once  there  is  a  great 
twittering  and  noise  ;  something  of  moment 
has  been  witnessed,  something  of  importance 
has  occurred  in  the  swallow-world,  —  perhaps 


Books  and  Gardens.  301 

a  fly  of  unusual  size  or  savour  has  been 
bolted.  Clinging  with  their  feet,  and  with 
heads  turned  charmingly  aside,  they  chatter 
away  with  voluble  sweetness,  then  with  a 
gleam  of  silver  they  are  gone,  and  in  a  trice 
one  is  poising  itself  in  the  wind  above  my 
tree-tops,  while  the  other  dips  her  wing  as 
she  darts  after  a  fly  through  the  arches  of 
the  bridge  which  lets  the  slow  stream  down 
to  the  sea.  I  go  to  the  southern  wall,  against 
which  I  have  trained  my  fruit-trees,  and  find 
it  a  sheet  of  white  and  vermeil  blossom  ;  and 
as  I  know  it  by  heart,  I  can  notice  what 
changes  take  place  on  it  day  by  day,  what 
later  clumps  of  buds  have  burst  into  colour 
and  odour.  What  beauty  in  that  blooming 
wall !  the  wedding-presents  of  a  princess 
ranged  for  admiration  would  not  please  me 
half  so  much  ;  what  dehcate  colouring  !  what 
fragrance  the  thievish  winds  steal  from  it, 
without  making  it  one  odour  the  poorer  !  with 
what  a  complacent  hum  the  bee  goes  past  ! 
My  chaffinch's  nest,  ray  swallows,  —  twittering 
but  a  few  months  ago  around  the  kraal  of 
the  Hottentot,  or  chasing  flies  around  the  six 
solitary  pillars  of  Baalbec,  —  with  their  nests 
in  the  corners  of  my  bed-room  windows, 
my  long-armed  fruit-trees  flowering  against 
my  sunny  wall,  are  not  mighty  pleasures,  but 


302  Books  and  Gardens. 

then  they  are  my  own,  and  I  have  not  to  go 
in  search  of  them.  And  so,  Uke  a  wise  man, 
I  am  content  with  what  I  have,  and  make  it 
richer  by  my  fancy,  which  is  as  cheap  as 
sunhght,  and  gilds  objects  quite  as  prettily. 
It  is  the  coins  in  my  own  pocket,  not  the 
coins  in  the  pockets  of  my  neighbour,  that 
are  of  use  to  me.  Discontent  has  never  a 
doit  in  her  purse,  and  envy  is  the  most 
poverty  stricken  of  the  passions. 

His  own  children,  and  the  children  he 
happens  to  meet  on  the  country  road,  a  man 
regards  with  quite  different  eyes.  The 
strange,  sunburnt  brats  returning  from  a 
primrose-hunt  and  laden  with  floral  spoils, 
may  be  as  healthy  looking,  as  pretty,  as 
well-behaved,  as  sweet-tempered,  as  neatly 
dressed  as  those  that  bear  his  name,  —  may 
be  in  every  respect  as  worthy  of  love  and 
admiration ;  but  then  they  have  the  misfor- 
tune not  to  belong  to  him.  That  little  fact 
makes  a  great  difference.  He  knows  noth- 
ing about  them  ;  his  acquaintance  with  them 
is  born  and  dead  in  a  moment.  I  like  my 
garden  better  than  any  other  garden,  for  the 
same  reason.  It  is  my  own.  And  owner- 
ship in  such  a  matter  implies  a  great  deal. 
When  I  first  settled  here,  the  ground  around 
the  house  was  sour  moorland.     I  made  the 


Books  and  Gardens  303 

walk,  planted  the  trees,  built  the  moss-house, 
erected  the  sun-dial,  brought  home  the  rho- 
dodendrons and  fed  them  with  the  mould 
which  they  love  so  well.  I  am  the  creator 
of  every  blossom,  of  every  odour  that  comes 
and  goes  in  the  wind.  The  rustle  of  ray 
trees  is  to  my  ear  what  his  child's  voice  is  to 
my  friends  the  village  doctor  or  the  village 
clergyman.  I  know  the  genealogy  of  every 
tree  and  plant  in  my  garden.  I  watch  their 
growth  as  a  father  watches  the  growth  of  his 
children.  It  is  curious  enough,  as  showing 
from  what  sources  objects  derive  their  impor- 
tance, that  if  you  have  once  planted  a  tree  for 
other  than  commercial  purposes,  —  and  in 
that  case  it  is  usually  done  by  your  orders  and 
by  the  hands  of  hirelings, — you  have  always 
in  it  a  peculiar  interest.  You  care  more  for 
it  than  you  care  for  all  the  forests  of  Nor- 
way or  America.  Yon  have  planted  it,  and 
that  is  sufficient  to  make  it  peculiar  amongst 
the  trees  of  the  world.  This  personal  interest 
I  take  in  every  inmate  of  my  garden,  and  this 
interest  I  have  increased  by  sedulous  watch- 
ing. But,  really,  trees  and  plants  resemble 
human  beings  in  many  ways.  You  shake  a 
packet  of  seed  into  your  forcing-frame  ;  and 
while  some  grow,  others  pine  and  die,  or 
struggle  on   under  hereditary  defect,  show- 


304  Books  and  Gardens. 

ing  indifferent  blossoms  late  in  the  season, 
and  succumb  at  length.  So  far  as  one  could 
discover,  the  seeds  were  originally  alike,  — 
they  received  the  same  care,  they  were  fed 
by  the  same  moisture  and  sunlight ;  but  of  no 
two  of  them  are  the  issues  the  same.  Do  I 
not  see  something  of  this  kind  in  the  world 
of  men,  and  can  I  not  please  myself  with 
quaint  analogies?  These  plants  and  trees 
have  their  seasons  of  illness  and  their  sud- 
den deaths.  Your  best  rose-tree,  whose 
fame  has  spread  for  twenty  miles,  is  smitten 
by  some  fell  disease  ;  its  leaves  take  an  un- 
healthy hue,  and  in  a  day  or  so  it  is  sapless,  — 
dead.  A  tree  of  mine,  the  first  last  spring 
to  put  out  its  leaves,  and  which  wore  them 
till  November,  made  this  spring  no  green 
response  to  the  call  of  the  sunshine.  Mar- 
velling what  ailed  it,  I  went  to  examine,  and 
found  it  had  been  dead  for  months ;  and  yet 
during  the  winter  there  had  been  no  frost  to 
speak  of,  and  more  than  its  brothers  and 
sisters  it  was  in  no  way  exposed.  These  are 
the  tragedies  of  the  garden,  and  they  shadow 
forth  other  tragedies  nearer  us.  In  every- 
thing we  find  a  kinrl  of  dim  mirror  of  our- 
selves. Sterne,  if  placed  in  a  desert,  said  he 
would  love  a  tree  ;  and  I  can  fancy  such  a 
love  would   not   be    altogether   unsatisfying. 


Books  and  Gardens.  305 

Love  of  trees  and  plants  is  safe.  You  do  not 
run  risk  in  your  affections.  They  are  my 
children,  silent  and  beautiful,  untouched  by 
any  passion,  unpolluted  by  evil  tempers ; 
for  me  they  leaf  and  flower  themselves.  In 
autumn  they  put  off  their  rich  apparel,  but 
next  year  they  are  back  again,  with  dresses 
fair  as  ever ;  and  —  one  can  extract  a  kind  of 
fanciful  bitterness  from  the  thought  —  should 
I  be  laid  in  my  grave  in  winter,  they  would 
all  in  spring  be  back  again,  with  faces  as 
bright  and  with  breaths  as  sweet,  missing 
me  not  at  all.  Ungrateful,  the  one  I  am 
fondest  of  would  blossom  very  prettily  if 
planted  on  the  soil  that  covers  me,  —  where 
my  dog  would  die,  where  my  best  friend 
would  perhaps  raise  an  inscription  ! 

I  like  flowering  plants,  but  I  like  trees 
more,  —  for  the  reason,  I  suppose,  that  they 
are  slower  in  coming  to  maturity,  are  longer 
lived,  that  you  can  become  better  acquainted 
with  them,  and  that  in  the  course  of  years 
memories  and  associations  hang  as  thickly 
on  their  boughs  as  do  leav^es  in  summer  or 
fruits  in  autumn.  I  do  not  wonder  that 
great  earls  value  their  trees,  and  never,  save 
in  direst  extremity,  lift  upon  them  the  axe. 
Ancient  descent  and  glory  are  made  audible 
in  the  proud  murmur  of  immemorial  woods. 


3o6  Books  and  Gardens. 

There  are  forests  in  England  whose  leafy 
noises  may  be  shaped  into  Agincourt  and 
the  names  of  the  battle-fields  of  the  Roses ; 
oaks  that  dropped  their  acorns  in  the  year 
that  Henry  VHI.  held  his  Field  of  the  Cloth 
of  Gold,  and  beeches  that  gave  shelter  to  the 
deer  when  Shakspeare  was  a  boy.  There 
they  stand,  in  sun  and  shower,  the  broad- 
armed  witnesses  of  perished  centuries ;  and 
sore  must  his  need  be  who  commands  a 
woodland  massacre.  A  great  English  tree,  the 
rings  of  a  century  in  its  boll,  is  one  of  the 
noblest  of  natural  objects ;  and  it  touches 
the  imagination  no  less  than  the  eye,  for  it 
grows  out  of  tradition  and  a  past  order  of 
things,  and  is  pathetic  with  the  suggestions 
of  dead  generations.  Trees  waving  a  colony 
of  rooks  in  the  wind  to-day,  are  older  than 
historic  lines.  Trees  are  your  best  antiques. 
There  are  cedars  on  Lebanon  which  the 
axes  of  Solomon  spared,  they  say,  when  he 
was  busy  with  his  'lemple  ;  there  are  olives 
on  Olivet  that  might  have  rustled  in  the  ears 
of  the  Master  and  the  Twelve ;  there  are 
oaks  in  Sherwood  which  have  tingled  to  the 
horn  of  Robin  Hood,  and  have  listened  to 
Maid  Marian's  laugh.  Think  of  an  existing 
Syrian  cedar  which  is  nearly  as  old  as  his- 
tory, which  was  middle-aged  before  the  wolf 


Books  and  Gardens.  307 

suckled  Romulus !  Think  of  an  existing 
English  elm  in  whose  branches  the  heron 
was  reared  which  the  hawks  of  Saxon  Harold 
killed  !  If  you  are  a  notable,  and  wish 
to  be  remembered,  better  plant  a  tree  than 
build  a  city  or  strike  a  medal ;  it  will  outlast 
both. 

My  trees  are  young  enough,  and  if  they 
do  not  take  me  away  into  the  past,  they 
project  me  into  the  future.  When  I  planted 
them,  I  knew  1  was  performing  an  act,  the 
issues  of  which  would  outlast  me  long.  My 
oaks  are  but  saplings  ;  but  what  undreamed- 
of English  kings  will  they  not  oudive  !  I 
pluck  my  apples,  my  pears,  my  plums ;  and 
I  know  that  from  the  same  branches  other 
hands  will  pluck  apples,  pears,  and  plums 
when  this  body  of  mine  will  have  shrunk 
into  a  pinch  of  dust.  I  cannot  dream  with 
what  year  these  hands  will  date  their  letters. 
A  man  does  not  plant  a  tree  for  himself,  he 
plants  it  for  posterity.  And,  sitting  idly  in 
the  sunshine,  I  think  at  times  of  the  unborn 
people  who  will,  to  some  small  extent,  be 
indebted  to  me.  Remember  me  kindly,  ye 
future  men  and  women  !  When  I  am  dead, 
the  juice  of  my  apples  will  foam  and  spurt  in 
your  cider-presses,  my  plums  will  gather  for 
you  their  misty  bloom  ;  and  that  any  of  your 


3o8  Books  and  Gardens. 

youngsters  should  be  choked  by  one  of  my 
cherry-stones,  merciful  Heaven  forfend  ! 

In  this  pleasant  summer  weather  I  hold 
my  audience  in  my  garden  rather  than  in  my 
house.  In  all  my  interviews  the  sun  is  a 
third  party.  Every  village  has  its  Fool,  and, 
of  course,  Dreamthorp  is  not  without  one. 
Him  I  get  to  run  my  messages  for  me,  and 
he  occasionally  turns  my  garden  borders 
with  a  neat  hand  enough.  He  and  I  hold 
frequent  converse,  and  people  here,  I  have 
been  told,  think  we  have  certain  points  of 
sympathy.  Although  this  is  not  meant  for 
a  compliment,  I  take  it  for  one.  The  poor 
faithful  creature's  brain  has  strange  visitors ; 
now  't  is  fun,  now  wisdom,  and  now  something 
which  seems  in  the  queerest  way  a  compound 
of  both.  He  lives  in  a  kind  of  twilight 
which  obscures  objects,  and  his  remarks 
seem  to  come  from  another  world  than  that 
in  which  ordinary  people  live.  He  is  the 
only  original  person  of  my  acquaintance  ;  his 
views  of  life  are  his  own,  and  form  a  singular 
commentary  on  those  generally  accepted. 
He  is  dull  enough  at  times,  poor  fellow ;  but 
anon  he  startles  you  with  something,  and 
you  think  he  must  have  wandered  out  of 
Shakspeare's  plays  into  this  out-of-the-way 
place.     Up  from  the  village  now  and   then 


Books  and  Gardens.  309 

comes  to  visit  me  the  tall,  gaunt,  atrabilious 
confectioner,  who  has  a  hankering  after  Red- 
republicanism,  and  the  destruction  of  Queen, 
Lords,  and  Commons.  Guy  Fawkes  is,  I 
believe,  the  only  martyr  in  his  calendar.  The 
sourest-tempered  man,  I  think,  that  ever 
engaged  in  the  manufacture  of  sweetmeats. 
I  wonder  that  the  oddity  of  the  thing  never 
strikes  himself.  To  be  at  all  consistent,  he 
should  put  poison  in  his  lozenges,  and  be- 
come the  Herod  of  the  village  innocents. 
One  of  his  many  eccentricities  is  a  love  for 
flowers,  and  he  visits  me  often  to  have  a  look 
at  my  greenhouse  and  my  borders.  I  listen 
to  his  truculent  and  revolutionary  speeches, 
and  take  my  revenge  by  sending  the  gloomy 
egotist  away  with  a  nosegay  in  his  hand,  and 
a  gay- coloured  flower  stuck  in  a  button-hole. 
He  goes  quite  unconscious  of  my  floral  satire. 
The  village  clergyman  and  the  village 
doctor  are  great  friends  of  mme ;  they  come 
to  visit  me  often,  and  smoke  a  pipe  with  me 
in  my  garden.  The  twain  love  and  respect 
each  other,  but  they  regard  the  world  from 
different  points  of  view,  and  I  am  now  and 
again  made  witness  of  a  good-humoured 
passage  of  arms.  The  clergyman  is  old, 
unmarried,  and  a  humourist.  His  sallies 
and  his  gentle  eccentricities  seldom  provoke 


3IO  Books  and  Gardens. 

laughter,  but  they  are  continually  awakening 
the  pleasantest  smiles.  Perhaps  what  he 
has  seen  of  the  world,  its  sins,  its  sorrows, 
its  death-beds,  its  widows  and  orphans,  has 
tamed  his  spirit  and  put  a  tenderness  into 
his  wit.  I  do  not  think  I  have  ever  encoun- 
tered a  man  who  so  adorns  his  sacred  pro- 
fession. His  pious,  devout  nature  produces 
sermons  just  as  naturally  as  my  apple-trees 
produce  apples.  He  is  a  tree  that  flowers 
every  Sunday.  Very  beautiful  in  his  rever- 
ence for  the  Book,  his  trust  in  it ;  through 
long  acquaintance,  its  ideas  have  come  to 
colour  his  entire  thought,  and  you  come 
upon  its  phrases  in  his  ordinary  speech.  He 
is  more  himself  in  the  pulpit  than  anywhere 
else,  and  you  get  nearer  him  in  his  sermons 
than  you  do  sitting  with  him  at  his  tea-table, 
or  walking  with  him  on  the  country  roads. 
He  does  not  feel  confined  in  his  orthodoxy; 
in  it  he  is  free  as  a  bird  in  the  air.  The 
doctor  is,  I  conceive,  as  good  a  Christian  as 
the  clergyman,  but  he  is  impatient  of  pale 
or  limit ;  he  never  comes  to  a  fence  without 
feeling  a  desire  to  get  over  it.  He  is  a  great 
hunter  of  insects,  and  he  thinks  that  the 
wings  of  his  butterflies  might  yield  very 
excellent  texts  ;  he  is  fond  of  geology,  and 
cannot,  especially  when  he  is  in  the  company 


Books  and  Gardens.  3 1 1 

of  the  clergyman,  resist  the  temptation  of 
hurUng  a  fossil  at  Moses.  He  wears  his 
scepticism  as  a  coquette  wears  her  ribbons, 
—  to  annoy  if  he  cannot  subdue ;  and  when 
his  purpose  is  served,  he  puts  his  scepticism 
aside,  —  as  the  coquette  puts  her  ribbons. 
Great  arguments  arise  between  them,  and 
the  doctor  loses  his  field  through  his  loss  of 
temper,  —  which,  howev^er,  he  regains  before 
any  harm  is  done  ;  for  the  worthy  man  is 
irascible  withal,  and  opposition  draws  fire 
from  him. 

After  an  outburst,  there  is  a  truce  between 
the  friends  for  a  while,  till  it  is  broken  by 
theological  battle  over  the  age  of  the  world, 
or  some  other  the  like  remote  matter,  which 
seems  important  to  me  only  in  so  far  as 
it  affords  ground  for  disputation.  These 
truces  are  broken  sometimes  by  the  doctor, 
sometimes  by  the  clergyman.  T'other  eve- 
ning the  doctor  and  myself  were  sitting  in 
the  garden,  smoking  each  a  meditative  pipe. 
Dreamthorp  lay  below,  with  its  old  castle 
and  its  lake,  and  its  hundred  wreaths  01 
smoke  floating  upward  into  the  sunset. 
Where  we  sat,  the  voices  of  children  playing 
in  the  street  could  hardly  reach  us.  Sud- 
denly a  step  was  heard  on  the  gravel,  and 
the  next  moment  the  clergyman  appeared,  as 


3J2  Books  and  Gardens. 

it  seemed  to  me,  with  a  peculiar  airiness  ot 
aspect,  and  the  hght  of  a  humourous  satisfac- 
tion in  his  eye.  After  the  usual  salutations, 
he  took  his  seat  beside  us,  lifted  a  pipe  of 
the  kind  called  "churchwarden"  from  the 
box  on  the  ground,  filled  and  lighted  it,  and 
for  a  little  while  we  were  silent  all  three.  The 
clergyman  then  drew  an  old  magazine  from 
his  side  pocket,  opened  it  at  a  place  where 
the  leaf  had  been  carefully  turned  down,  and 
drew  my  attention  to  a  short  poem  which 
had  for  its  title,  "Vanity  Fair,"  imprinted  in 
German  text.  This  poem  he  desired  me  to 
read  aloud.  Laying  down  my  pipe  carefully 
beside  me,  I  complied  with  his  request.  It 
ran  thus  ;  for  as  after  my  friends  went  it  was 
left  behind,  I  have  written  it  down  word  for 
word  :  — 

"  The  world-old  Fair  of  Vanity 

Since  Ikmyan's  day  lias  grown  discreeter 
No  more  it  flocks  in  crowds  to  see 
A  blazing  Paul  or  Peter. 

"  Not  that  a  single  inch  it  swerves 

From  hate  of  saint  or  love  of  sinner; 
But  martyrs  shock  aesthetic  nerves, 
And  spoil  the  ,^o&t  of  dinner. 

"  Raise  but  a  shout,  or  flaunt  a  scarf, — 
Its  mobs  are  all  agog  and  flying ; 
They  '11  cram  the  levee  of  a  dwarf, 
And  leave  a  Ilaydon  dying. 


Books  and  Gardens.  313 

"  They  live  upon  each  newest  thing, 

They  fill  their  idle  days  with  seeing; 
Fresh  news  of  courtier  and  of  king 
Sustains  their  empty  being. 

"  The  statelier,  from  year  to  year, 

Maintain  their  comfortable  stations 
At  the  wide  windows  that  o'erpeer 
The  public  square  of  nations  ; 

"  While  through  it  heaves,  with  cheers  and  groans, 
Harsh  drums  of  Ijattle  in  the  distance. 
Frightful  with  gallows,  ropes,  and  thrones, 
The  medley  of  existence  ; 

"  Amongst  them  tongues  are  wagging  much; 
Hark  to  the  philosophic  sisters  ! 
To  his,  whose  keen  satiric  touch, 
Like  the  Medusa,  blisters  ! 

"  All  things  are  made  for  talk,  —  St.  Paul; 
The  pattern  of  an  altar  cushion ; 
A  Paris  wild  with  carnival, 
Or  red  with  revolution. 

"  And  much  they  knew,  that  sneering  crew, 
Of  things  above  the  world  and  under: 
They  search'd  the  hoary  deep ;  they  knew 
The  secret  of  the  thunder  ; 

"  The  pure  white  arrow  of  the  light 
They  split  into  its  colours  seven  ; 
They  weighed  the  sun  ;  they  dwelt,  like  night, 
Among  the  stars  of  heaven ; 

"  They  've  found  out  life  and  death,  —  the  first 
Is  known  but  to  the  upper  classes ; 
The  second,  pooh  !  't  is  at  the  worst 
A  dissolution  into  gases. 


314  Books  and  Gardens. 

"  And  vice  and  virtue  are  akin, 

As  black  and  white  from  Adam  issue,  — 
One  flesh,  one  blood,  though  sheeted  in 
A  different  coloured  tissue. 

"  Their  science  groped  from  star  to  star ;  — 
But  then  herself  found  nothing  greater. 
What  wonder.'  —  in  a  Leyden  jar 
They  bottled  the  Creator. 

"  Fires  fluttered  on  their  lightning-rod ; 

They  cleared  the  human  mind  from  error; 
They  emptied  heaven  of  its  God, 
And  Tophet  of  its  terror. 

"  Better  the  savage  in  his  dance 

Than  these  acute  and  syllogistic ! 
Better  a  reverent  ignorance 
Than  knowledge  atheistic ! 

"  Have  they  dispelled  one  cloud  that  lowers 
So  darkly  on  the  human  creature.' 
They  with  their  irreligious  powers 
Have  subjugated  nature. 

"  But,  as  a  satyr  wins  the  charms 
Of  maiden  in  a  forest  hearted, 
He  finds,  when  clasped  within  his  arms, 
The  outraged  soul  departed." 

When  I  had  done  reading  these  verses, 
the  clergyman  glanced  slyly  along  to  see  the 
effect  of  his  shot.  The  doctor  drew  two  or 
three  hurried  whiffs,  gave  a  huge  grunt  of 
scorn,  then,  turning  sharply,  asked,  "  What  is 
'  a  reverent  ignorance  '  ?  What  is  '  a  knowl- 
edge atheistic'?"  The  clergyman,  skewered 
by   the    sudden   question,   wriggled  a  little,. 


Books  and  Gardens.  315 

and  then  began  to  explain,  —  with  no  great 
heart,  however,  for  he  had  had  his  Httle  joke 
out,  and  did  not  care  to  carry  it  further. 
The  'doctor  hstened  for  a  Httle,  and  then, 
laying  down  his  pipe,  said,  with  some  heat, 
"  It  won't  do.  '  Reverent  ignorance  '  and 
such  trash  is  a  mere  jingle  of  words ;  that 
you  know  as  well  as  I.  You  stumbled  on 
these  verses,  and  brought  them  up  here  to 
throw  them  at  me.  They  don't  harm  me  in 
the  least,  I  can  assure  you.  There  is  no  use," 
continued  the  doctor,  mollifying  at  the  sight 
of  his  friend's  countenance,  and  seeing  how 
the  land  lay,  —  "  there  is  no  use  speaking  to 
our  incurious,  solitary  friend  here,  who  could 
bask  comfortably  in  sunshine  for  a  century, 
without  once  inquiring  whence  came  the 
light  and  heat.  But  let  me  tell  you,"  lifting 
his  pipe  and  shaking  it  across  me  at  the 
clergyman,  "  that  science  has  done  services 
to  your  cloth  which  have  not  always  received 
the  most  grateful  acknowledgments,  ^^'hy, 
man,"  here  he  began  to  fill  his  pipe  slowly, 
"  the  theologian  and  the  man  of  science, 
although  they  seem  to  diverge  and  lose  sight 
of  each  other,  are  all  the  while  working  to 
one  end.  Two  exploring  parties  in  Australia 
set  out  from  one  point ;  the  one  goes  east, 
and  the  other  west.     They  lose  sight  of  each 


3i6  Books  and  Gardetis. 

other,  they  know  nothing  of  one  another's 
whereabouts ;  but  they  are  all  steering  to 
one  point,"  —  the  sharp  spirt  of  a  fusee  on 
the  garden-seat  came  in  here,  followed  by 
an  aromatic  flavour  in  the  air,  —  "  and  when 
they  do  meet,  which  they  are  certain  to  do 
in  the  long  run,"  —  here  the  doctor  put  the 
pipe  in  his  mouth,  and  finished  his  speech 
with  it  there,  —  "  the  figure  of  the  continent 
has  become  known,  and  may  be  set  down  in 
maps.  The  exploring  parties  have  started 
long  ago.  What  folly  in  the  one  to  pooh- 
pooh  or  be  suspicious  of  the  exertions  of 
the  other.  That  party  deserves  the  greatest 
credit  which  meets  the  other  more  than  half 
way."  —  "  Bravo  !  "  cried  the  clergyman, 
when  the  doctor  had  finished  his  oration ; 
"  I  don't  know  that  I  could  fill  your  place  at 
the  bedside,  but  I  am  quite  sure  that  you 
could  fill  mine  in  the  pulpit."  —  "I  am  not 
sure  that  the  congregation  would  approve  of 
the  change,  —  I  might  disturb  their  slum- 
bers ;  "  and,  pleased  with  his  retort,  his  cheery 
laugh  rose  through  a  cloud  of  smoke  into 
the  sunset. 

Heigho  !  mine  is  a  dull  life,  I  fear,  when 
this  little  affair  of  the  doctor  and  the  clergy- 
man takes  the  dignity  of  an  incident,  and 
seems  worthy  of  being  recorded. 


Books  and  Gardens.  317 

The  doctor  was  anxious  that,  during  the 
following  winter,  a  short  course  of  lectures 
should  be  delivered  in  the  village  school- 
room, and  in  mj'  garden  he  held  several  con- 
ferences on  the  matter  with  the  clergyman 
and  myself.  It  was  arranged  finally  that  the 
lectures  should  be  delivered,  and  that  one 
of  them  should  be  deliv^ered  by  me.  I  need 
not  say  how  pleasant  was  the  writing  out  of 
my  discourse,  and  how  the  pleasure  was 
heightened  by  the  slightest  thrill  of  alarm  at 
my  own  temerity.  My  lecture  I  copied  out 
in  my  most  careful  hand,  and,  as  I  had  it  by 
heart,  I  used  to  declaim  passages  of  it  en- 
sconced in  my  moss-house,  or  concealed 
behind  my  shrubbery  trees.  In  these  places 
I  tried  it  all  over,  sentence  by  sentence. 
The  evening  came  at  last  which  had  been 
looked  forward  to  for  a  couple  of  months  or 
more.  The  small  schoolroom  was  filled  by 
forms  on  which  the  people  sat,  and  a  small 
reading-desk,  with  a  tumbler  of  water  on  it, 
at  the  further  end,  waited  for  me.  When  I 
took  my  seat,  the  couple  of  hundred  eyes 
struck  into  me  a  certain  awe.  I  discovered 
in  a  moment  why  the  orator  of  the  hustings 
is  so  deferential  to  the  mob.  You  may  de- 
spise every  individual  member  of  your  audi- 
ence, but  these  despised  individuals,  in  their 


3i8  Books  and  Guldens. 

capacity  of  a  collective  body,  overpower 
you.  I  addressed  the  people  with  the  most 
unfeigned  respect.  When  I  began,  too,  I 
found  what  a  dreadful  thing  it  is  to  hear 
your  own  voice  inhabiting  the  silence.  You 
are  related  to  your  voice,  and  yet  divorced 
from  it.  It  is  you,  and  yet  a  thing  apart. 
All  the  time  it  is  going  on,  you  can  be  criti- 
cal as  to  its  tone,  volume,  cadence,  and  other 
qualities,  as  if  it  was  the  voice  of  a  stranger. 
Gradually,  however,  I  got  accustomed  to  my 
voice,  and  the  respect  which  I  entertained 
for  my  hearers  so  far  relaxed  that  I  was  at 
last  able  to  look  them  in  the  face.  I  saw 
the  doctor  and  the  clergyman  smile  encour- 
agingly, and  my  half-witted  gardener  looking 
up  at  me  with  open  mouth,  and  the  atra- 
bilious confectioner  clap  his  hands,  which 
made  me  take  refuge  in  my  paper  again.  I 
got  to  the  end  of  my  task  without  any 
remarkable  incident,  if  I  except  the  doctor's 
once  calling  out  "hear"  loudly,  which 
brought  the  heart  into  my  mouth,  and 
blurred  half  a  sentence.  When  I  sat  down, 
there  were  the  usual  sounds  of  approbation, 
and  the  confectioner  returned  thanks,  in  the 
name  of  the  audience. 


ALL  it  oddity,  eccentricity,  hu- 
mour, or  what  you  please,  it  is 
evident  that  the  special  flavour  of 
ig^^if55fc.j  iiiind  or  manner  which,  indepen- 
dently of  fortune,  station,  or  profession,  sets 
a  man  apart  and  makes  him  distinguishable 
from  his  fellows,  and  which  gives  the  charm  of 
picturesqueness  to  society,  is  fast  disappear- 
ing from  amongst  us.  A  man  may  count  the 
odd  people  of  his  acquaintance  on  his  fin- 
gers ;  and  it  is  observable  that  these  odd 
people  are  generally  well  stricken  in  years. 
They  belong  more  to  the  past  generation 
than  to  the  present.  Our  young  men  are 
terribly  alike.  For  these  many  years  back, 
the  young  gentlemen  I  have  had  the  fortune 
to  encounter  are  clever,  knowing,  selfish, 
disagreeable ;  the  young  ladies  are  of  one 
pattern,  like  minted  sovereigns  of  the  same 
reign,  —  excellent  gold,  I  have  no  doubt,  but 
each  bearing  the  same  awfully  proper  image 


320  On    Vagabonds. 

and  superscription.  There  are  no  blanks  in 
the  matrimonial  lottery  nowadays,  but  the 
prizes  are  all  of  a  value,  and  there  is  but  one 
kind  of  article  given  for  the  ticket.  Court- 
ship is  an  absurdity  and  a  sheer  waste  of 
time.  If  a  man  could  but  close  his  eyes  in  a 
ball-room,  dash  into  a  bevy  of  muslin  beau- 
ties, carry  off  the  fair  one  that  accident  gives 
to  his  arms,  his  raid  would  be  as  reasonable 
and  as  likely  to  produce  happiness  as  the 
more  ordinary  methods  of  procuring  a 
spouse.  If  a  man  has  to  choose  one  guinea 
out  of  a  bag  containing  one  hundred  and 
fifty,  what  can  he  do?  What  wonderful 
wisdom  can  he  display  in  his  choice? 
There  is  no  appreciable  difference  of  value 
in  the  golden  pieces.  The  latest  coined  are 
a  little  fresher,  that 's  all.  An  act  of  unifor- 
mity, with  heavy  penalties  for  recusants,  seems 
to  have  been  passed  upon  the  English  race. 
That  we  can  quite  well  account  for  this  state 
of  things,  does  not  make  the  matter  better, 
does  not  make  it  the  less  our  duty  to  fight 
against  it.  We  are  apt  to  be  told  that  men 
are  too  busy  and  women  too  accomplished  for 
humour  of  speech  or  originality  of  character 
or  manner.  In  the  truth  of  this  lies  the  pity 
of  it.  If,  with  the  exceptions  of  hedges  that 
divide  fields,  and  streams  that  run  as  marches 


On    Vagabotids.  321 

between  farms,  every  inch  of  soil  were 
drained,  ploughed,  manured,  and  under  that 
improved  cultivation  rushing  up  into  aston- 
ishing wheaten  and  oaten  crops,  enriching 
tenant  and  proprietor,  the  aspect  of  the 
country  would  be  decidedly  uninteresting, 
and  would  present  scant  attraction  to  the 
man  riding  or  walking  through  it.  In  such 
a  world  the  tourists  would  be  few.  Person- 
ally, I  should  detest  a  world  all  red  and  ruled 
with  the  ploughshare  in  spring,  all  covered 
with  harvest  in  autumn.  I  wish  a  little  vari- 
ety. I  desiderate  moors  and  barren  places  : 
the  copse  where  you  can  flush  the  wood- 
cock ;  the  warren  where,  when  you  approach, 
you  can  see  the  twinkle  of  innumerable  rab- 
bit tails ;  and,  to  tell  the  truth,  would  not 
feel  sorry  although  Reynard  himself  had  a 
hole  beneath  the  wooded  bank,  even  if  the 
demands  of  his  rising  family  cost  Farmer 
Yellowleas  a  fat  capon  or  two  in  the  season. 
The  fresh,  rough,  heathery  parts  of  human 
nature,  where  the  air  is  freshest,  and  where 
the  linnets  sing,  is  getting  encroached  upon 
by  cultivated  fields.  Every  one  is  making 
himself  and  herself  useful.  Every  one  is 
producing  something.  Everybody  is  clever. 
Everybody  is  a  philanthropist.  I  don't  like 
it.     I   love   a   little   eccentricity.     I   respect 


32  2  On    Vagabonds. 

honest  prejudices.  I  admire  foolish  enthu- 
siasm in  a  young  head  better  than  a  wise 
scepticism.  It  is  high  time,  it  seems  to  me, 
that  a  moral  game-law  were  passed  for  the 
preservation  of  the  wild  and  vagrant  feelings 
of  human  nature. 

I  have  advertised  myself  to  speak  of  vaga- 
bonds, and  I  must  explain  what  I  mean  by 
the  term.  We  all  know  what  was  the  doom 
of  the  first  child  born  of  man,  and  it  is  need- 
less for  me  to  say  that  I  do  not  wish  the 
spirit  of  Cain  more  widely  diffused  amongst 
my  fellow-creatures.  By  vagabonds,  I  do 
not  mean  a  tramp  or  a  gipsy,  or  a  thimble- 
rigger,  or  a  brawler  who  is  brought  up  with 
a  black  eye  before  a  magistrate  in  the  morn- 
ing. The  vagabond  as  I  have  him  in  my 
mind's  eye,  and  whom  I  dearly  love,  comes 
out  of  quite  a  different  mould.  The  man  I 
speak  of,  seldom,  it  is  true,  attains  to  the 
dignity  of  a  churchwarden ;  he  is  never 
found  sitting  at  a  reformed  town-council 
board  ;  he  has  a  horror  of  public  platforms  ; 
he  never  by  any  chance  heads  a  subscription 
list  with  a  donation  of  fifty  pounds.  On 
the  other  hand,  he  is  very  far  from  being  a 
"  ne'er-do-weel,"  as  the  Scotch  phrase  it,  or 
an  imprudent  person.  He  does  not  play  at 
"  Aunt  Sally  "  on  a  public  race-course  ;   he 


On    Vagabonds.  323 

does  not  wrench  knockers  from  the  doors 
of  slumbering  citizens  ;  he  has  never  seen 
the  interior  of  a  pohce-cell.  It  is  quite  true, 
he  has  a  pecuUar  way  of  looking  at  many 
things.  If,  for  instance,  he  is  brought  up 
with  cousin  Milly,  and  loves  her  dearly,  and 
the  childish  affection  grows  up  and  strength- 
ens in  the  woman's  heart,  and  there  is  a  fair 
chance  for  them  fighting  the  world  side  by 
side,  he  marries  her  without  too  curiously 
considering  whether  his  income  will  permit 
him  to  give  dinner-parties,  and  otherwise 
fashionably  see  his  friends.  Very  imprudent, 
no  doubt.  But  you  cannot  convince  my 
vagabond.  With  the  strangest  logical  twist, 
which  seems  natural  to  him,  he  conceives 
that  he  marries  for  his  own  sake,  and  not 
for  the  sake  of  his  acquaintances,  and  that 
the  possession  of  a  loving  heart  and  a  con- 
science void  of  reproach  is  worth,  at  any 
time  an  odd  sovereign  in  his  pocket.  The 
vagabond  is  not  a  favourite  with  the  respec- 
table classes.  He  is  particularly  feared  by 
mammas  who  have  daughters  to  dispose  of, 
—  not  that  he  is  a  bad  son,  or  likely  to  prove 
a  bad  husband  or  a  treacherous  friend  ;  but 
somehow  gold  does  not  stick  to  his  fingers 
as  it  does  to  the  fingers  of  some  men.  He 
is  regardless  of  appearances.     He  chooses 


324  On    Vagabonds. 

his  friends  neither  for  their  fine  houses  nor 
their  rare  wines,  but  for  their  humours,  their 
goodness  of  heart,  their  capacities  of  making 
a  joke  and  of  seeing  one,  and  for  their  abih- 
ties,  unknown  often  as  the  woodland  violet, 
but  not  the  less  sweet  for  obscurity.  As  a 
consequence,  his  acquaintance  is  miscella- 
neous, and  he  is  often  seen  at  other  places 
than  rich  men's  feasts.  I  do  believe  he  is  a 
gainer  by  reason  of  his  vagrant  ways.  He 
comes  in  contact  with  the  queer  corners  and 
the  out-of-the-way  places  of  human  life.  He 
knows  more  of  our  common  nature,  just  as 
the  man  who  walks  through  a  country,  and 
who  strikes  off  the  main  road  now  and  then 
to  visit  a  ruin,  or  a  legendary  cairn  of  stones, 
who  drops  into  village  inns,  and  talks  with 
the  people  he  meets  on  the  road,  becomes 
better  acquainted  with  it  than  the  man  who 
rolls  haughtily  along  the  turnpike  in  a  car- 
riage and  four.  We  lose  a  great  deal  by 
foolish  hauteur.  No  man  is  worth  much 
who  has  not  a  touch  of  the  vagabond  in  him. 
Could  I  have  visited  London  thirty  years 
ago,  I  would  rather  have  spent  an  hour  with 
Charles  Lamb  than  with  any  other  of  its 
residents.  He  was  a  fine  specimen  of  the 
vagabond,  as  I  conceive  him.  His  mind  was 
as  full  of  queer  nooks  and  tortuous  passages 


C-M/\RLL5     L/\MB. 


On    Vagabonds.  325 

as  any  mansion-house  of  Elizabeth's  day  or 
earlier,  where  the  rooms  are  cosey,  albeit  a 
little  low  in  the  roof;  where  dusty  stained 
lights  are  falling  on  old  oaken  panellings ; 
where  every  bit  of  furniture  has  a  reverent 
flavour  of  ancientness ;  where  portraits  of 
noble  men  and  women,  all  dead  long  ago, 
are  hanging  on  the  walls  ;  and  where  a  black- 
letter  Chaucer  with  silver  clasps  is  lying 
open  on  a  seat  in  the  window.  There  was 
nothing  modern  about  him.  The  garden  of 
his  mind  did  not  flaunt  in  gay  parterres ;  it 
resembled  those  that  Cowley  and  Evelyn 
delighted  in,  with  clipped  trees,  and  shaven 
lawns,  and  stone  satyrs,  and  dark,  shadow- 
ing yews,  and  a  sun-dial,  with  a  Latin  motto 
sculptured  on  it,  standing  at  the  farther  end. 
Lamb  was  the  slave  of  quip  and  vvhimsey  ;  he 
stuttered  out  puns  to  the  detriment  of  all 
serious  and  improving  conversation,  and 
twice  or  so  in  the  year  he  was  overtaken  in 
liquor.  Well,  in  spite  of  these  things,  per- 
haps on  account  of  these  things,  I  love 
his  memory.  For  love  and  charity  ripened 
in  that  nature  as  peaches  ripen  on  the  wall 
that  fronts  the  sun.  Although  he  did  not 
blow  his  trumpet  in  the  corners  of  the 
streets,  he  was  tried  as  few  men  are,  and 
fell  not.    He  jested,  that  he  might  not  weep. 


326  0?i    Vagabonds. 

He  wore  a  martyr's  heart  beneath  his  suit 
of  motley.  And  only  years  after  his  death, 
when  to  admiration  or  censure  he  was  alike 
insensible,  did  the  world  know  his  story  and 
that  of  his  sister  Mary. 

Ah,  me  !  what  a  world  this  was  to  live  in 
two  or  three  centuries  ago,  when  it  was  get- 
ting itself  discovered  —  when  the  sunset  gave 
up  America,  when  a  steel  hand  had  the  spoil- 
ing of  Mexico  and  Peru  !  Then  were  the 
"  Arabian  Nights  "  commonplace,  enchant- 
ments a  matter  of  course,  and  romance  the 
most  ordinary  thing  in  the  world.  Then 
man  was  courting  Nature  ;  now  he  has  mar- 
ried her.  Every  mystery  is  dissipated.  The 
planet  is  familiar  as  the  trodden  pathway 
running  between  towns.  We  no  longer  gaze 
wistfully  to  the  west,  dreaming  of  the  For- 
tunate Isles.  We  seek  our  wonders  now  on 
the  ebbed  sea-shore ;  we  discover  our  new 
worlds  with  the  microscope.  Yet,  for  all 
that  time  has  brought  and  taken  away,  I  am 
glad  to  know  that  the  vagabond  sleeps  in 
our  blood,  and  awakes  now  and  then.  Over- 
lay human  nature  as  you  please,  here  and 
there  some  bit  of  rock,  or  mound  of  aborigi- 
nal soil,  will  crop  out  with  the  wild- flowers 
growing  upon  it,  sweetening  the  air.  When 
the  boy  throws  his   Delectus  or  his  Euclid 


On    Vagabonds.  327 

aside,  and  takes  passionately  to  the  reading 
of  "'  Robinson  Crusoe  "  or  Bruce's  "  African 
Travels,"  do  not  shake  your  head  despond- 
ingly  over  him  and  prophesy  evil  issues. 
Let  the  wild  hawk  try  its  wings.  It  will  be 
hooded,  and  will  sit  quietly  enough  on  the 
falconer's  perch  ere  long.  Let  the  wild 
horse  career  over  its  boundless  pampas ; 
the  jerk  of  the  lasso  will  bring  it  down  soon 
enough.  Soon  enough  will  the  snaffle  in 
the  mouth  and  the  spur  of  the  tamer  subdue 
the  high  spirit  to  the  bridle,  or  the  carriage- 
trace.  Perhaps  not ;  and,  if  so,  the  better  for 
all  parties.  Once  more  there  will  be  a  new 
man  and  new  deeds  in  the  world.  P'or 
Genius  is  a  vagabond.  Art  is  a  vagabond, 
Enterprise  is  a  vagabond.  Vagabonds  have 
moulded  the  world  into  its  present  shape ; 
they  have  made  the  houses  in  which  we 
dwell,  the  roads  on  which  we  ride  and  drive, 
the  very  laws  that  govern  us.  Respectable 
people  swarm  in  the  track  of  the  vagabond  as 
rooks  in  the  track  of  the  ploughshare.  Re- 
spectable people  do  little  in  the  world  except 
storing  wine-cellars  and  amassing  fortunes 
for  the  benefit  of  spendthrift  heirs.  Respec- 
table well-to-do  Grecians  shook  their  heads 
over  Leonidas  and  his  three  hundred  when 
they  went  down  to  Thermopylae.     Respec- 


328  On    Vagabonds. 

table  Spanish  churchmen  with  shaven  crowns 
scouted  the  dream  of  Columbus.  Respec- 
table German  folks  attempted  to  dissuade 
Luther  from  appearing  before  Charles  and 
the  princes  and  electors  of  the  Empire,  and 
were  scandalised  when  he  declared  that 
"  Were  there  as  many  devils  in  Worms  as 
there  were  tiles  on  the  house-tops,  still 
would  he  on."  Nature  makes  us  vagabonds, 
the  world  makes  us  respectable. 

In  the  fine  sense  in  which  I  take  the  word, 
the  English  are  the  greatest  vagabonds  on 
the  earth,  and  it  is  the  healthiest  trait  in 
their  national  character.  The  first  fine  day 
in  spring  awakes  the  gipsy  in  the  blood  of 
the  English  workman,  and  incontinently  he 
"  babbles  of  green  fields."  On  the  English 
gentleman  lapped  in  the  most  luxurious 
civilisation,  and  with  the  thousand  powers 
and  resources  of  wealth  at  his  command, 
descends  oftentimes  a  fierce  unrest,  a 
Bedouin-like  horror  of  cities  and  the  cry  of 
the  money-changer,  and  in  a  month  the  fiery 
dust  rises  in  the  track  of  his  desert  steed, 
or  in  the  six  months'  polar  midnight  he 
hears  the  big  wave  clashing  on  the  icy  shore. 
The  close  presence  of  the  sea  feeds  the 
Englishman's  restlessness.  She  takes  pos- 
session of  his  heart  like  some  fair  capricious 


On    Vagabonds.  329 

mistress.  Before  the  boy  awakes  to  the 
beauty  of  cousin  Mary,  he  is  crazed  by  the 
fascinations  of  ocean.  With  her  voices  of 
ebb  and  flow  she  weaves  her  siren  song 
round  the  Englishman's  coasts  day  and 
night.  Nothing  that  dwells  on  land  can 
keep  from  her  embrace  the  boy  who  has 
gazed  upon  her  dangerous  beauty,  and  who 
has  heard  her  singing  songs  of  foreign 
shores  at  the  foot  of  the  summer  crag.  It  is 
well  that  in  the  modern  gentleman  the  fierce 
heart  of  the  Berserker  lives  yet.  The  En- 
glish are  eminently  a  nation  of  vagabonds. 
The  sun  paints  English  faces  with  all  the 
colours  of  his  climes.  The  Englishman  is 
ubiquitous.  He  shakes  with  fever  and  ague 
in  the  swampy  valley  of  the  Mississippi ;  he 
is  drowned  in  the  sand  pillars  as  they  waltz 
across  the  desert  on  the  purple  breath  of 
the  simoom  ;  he  stands  on  the  icy  scalp  of 
Mont  Blanc ;  his  fly  falls  in  the  sullen  Nor- 
wegian fiords ;  he  invades  the  solitude  of 
the  Cape  lion ;  he  rides  on  his  donkey 
through  the  uncausewayed  Cairo  streets. 
That  wealthy  people,  under  a  despotism, 
should  be  travellers  seems  a  natural  thing 
enough.  It  is  a  way  of  escape  from  the 
rigours  of  their  condition.  But  that  England 
—  where  activity   rages   so   keenly  and  en- 


33©  On   Vagabonds. 

grosses  every  class ;  where  the  prizes  of 
Parhament,  literature,  commerce,  the  bar, 
the  church,  are  hungered  and  thirsted  after ; 
where  the  stress  and  intensity  of  life  ages  a 
man  before  his  time ;  where  so  many  of  the 
noblest  break  down  in  harness  hardly  half- 
way to  the  goal  —  should,  year  after  year, 
send  off  swarms  of  men  to  roam  the  world, 
and  to  seek  out  danger  for  the  mere  thrill 
and  enjoyment  of  it,  is  significant  of  the 
indomitable  pluck  and  spirit  of  the  race. 
There  is  scant  danger  that  the  rust  of  sloth 
will  eat  into  the  virtue  of  English  steel.  The 
English  do  the  hard  work  and  the  travel- 
ling of  the  world.  The  least  revolutionary 
nation  of  Europe,  the  one  with  the  greatest 
temptations  to  stay  at  home,  with  the  greatest 
faculty  for  work,  with  perhaps  the  sincerest 
regard  for  wealth,  is  also  the  most  nomadic. 
How  is  this?  It  is  because  they  are  a  nation 
of  vagabonds  ;  they  have  the  "  hungry  heart  " 
that  one  of  their  poets  speaks  about. 

There  is  an  amiability  about  the  genuine 
vagabond  which  takes  captive  the  heart. 
We  do  not  love  a  man  for  his  respectability, 
his  prudence  and  foresight  in  business,  his 
capacity  of  living  within  his  income,  or  his 
balance  at  his  banker's.  We  all  admit  that 
prudence  is  an  admirable  virtue,  and  occa- 


On    Vagabonds.  331 

sionally  lament,  about  Christmas,  when  bills 
tall  in,  that  we  do  not  inherit  it  in  a  greater 
degree.  But  we  speak  about  it  in  quite  a 
cool  way.  It  does  not  touch  us  with  enthu- 
siasm. If  a  calculating-machine  had  a  hand 
to  wring,  it  would  find  few  to  wring  it 
warmly.  The  things  that  really  move  liking 
in  human  beings  are  the  gnarled  nodosities 
of  character,  vagrant  humours,  freaks  of  gen- 
erosity, some  little  unextinguishable  spark 
of  the  aboriginal  savage,  some  little  sweet 
savour  of  the  old  Adam.  It;  is  quite  wonder- 
ful how  far  simple  generosity  and  kindliness 
of  heart  go  in  securing  affection ;  and,  when 
these  exist,  what  a  host  of  apologists  spring 
up  for  faults  and  vices  even.  A  country 
squire  goes  recklessly  to  the  dogs  ;  yet  if  he 
has  a  kind  word  for  his  tenant  when  he 
meets  him,  a  frank  greeting  for  the  rustic 
beauty  when  she  drops  a  courtesy  to  him  on 
the  highway,  he  lives  for  a  whole  generation 
in  an  odour  of  sanctity.  If  he  had  been  a 
disdainful,  hook-nosed  prime  minister  who 
had  carried  his  country  triumphantly  through 
some  frightful  crisis  of  war,  these  people 
would,  perhaps,  never  have  been  aware  of 
the  fact ;  and  most  certainly  never  would 
have  tendered  him  a  word  of  thanks,  even  if 
they  had.     When    that  important  question. 


332  On    Vagabonds. 

"  Which  is  the  greatest  foe  to  the  public 
weal  —  the  miser  or  the  spendthrift  ?  "  is  dis- 
cussed at  the  artisans'  debating  club,  the 
spendthrift  has  all  the  eloquence  on  his  side 
—  the  miser  all  the  votes.  The  miser's  advo- 
cate is  nowhere,  and  he  pleads  the  cause  of 
his  client  with  only  half  his  heart.  In  the 
theatre,  Charles  Surface  is  applauded,  and 
Joseph  Surface  is  hissed.  The  novel-reader's 
affection  goes  out  to  Tom  Jones,  his  hatred 
to  Blifil.  Joseph  Surface  and  Blifil  are 
scoundrels,  it  is  true  ;  but  deduct  the  scoun- 
drelism,  let  Joseph  be  but  a  stale  proverb- 
monger  and  Blifil  a  conceited  prig,  and  the 
issue  remains  the  same.  Good  humour  and 
generosity  carry  the  day  with  the  popular 
heart  all  the  world  over.  Tom  Jones  and 
Charles  Surface  are  not  vagabonds  to  my 
taste.  They  were  shabby  fellows  both,  and 
were  treated  a  great  deal  too  well.  But 
there  are  other  vagabonds  whom  I  love, 
and  whom  I  do  well  to  love.  With  what 
affection  do  I  follow  little  Ishmael  and  his 
broken-hearted  mother  out  into  the  great 
and  terrible  wilderness,  and  see  them  faint 
beneath  the  ardours  of  the  sunlight !  And 
we  feel  it  to  be  strict  poetic  justice  and  com- 
pensation that  the  lad  so  driven  forth  from 
human   tents    should  become  the  father  of 


On    Vagabonds.  ■t^t^t^ 

wild  Arabian  men,  to  whom  the  air  of  cities 
is  poison,  who  work  without  any  tool,  and 
on  whose  limbs  no  conqueror  has  ever  yet 
been  able  to  rivet  shackle  or  chain.  Then 
there  are  Abraham's  grandchildren,  Jacob 
and  Esau  —  the  former,  I  confess,  no  favourite 
of  mine.  His,  up  at  least  to  his  closing 
years,  when  parental  affection  and  strong 
sorrow  softened  him,  was  a  character  not 
amiable.  He  lacked  generosity,  and  had  too 
keen  an  eye  on  his  own  advancement.  He 
did  not  inherit  the  noble  strain  of  his  ances- 
tors. He  was  a  prosperous  man ;  yet  in 
spite  of  his  increase  in  flocks  and  herds,  — 
in  spite  of  his  vision  of  the  ladder,  with  the 
angels  ascending  and  descending  upon  it,  — 
in  spite  of  the  success  of  his  beloved  son,  — 
in  spite  of  the  w-eeping  and  lamentation  of 
the  Egyptians  at  his  death,  —  in  spite  of  his 
splendid  funeral,  winding  from  the  city  by 
the  pyramid  and  the  sphinx,  —  in  spite  of  all 
these  things,  I  would  rather  have  been  the 
hunter  Esau,  with  birthright  filched  away, 
bankrupt  in  the  promise,  rich  only  in  fleet 
foot  and  keen  spear ;  for  he  carried  into  the 
wilds  with  him  an  essentially  noble  nature 
—  no  brother  with  his  mess  of  pottage  could 
mulct  him  of  that.  And  he  had  a  fine  re- 
venge ;     for   when   Jacob,    on    his    journey, 


334 


On    Vambonds. 


heard  that  his  brother  was  near  with  four 
hundred  men,  and  made  divison  of  his  flocks 
and  herds,  his  man-servants  and  maid-ser- 
vants, impetuous  as  a  swollen  hill-torrent, 
the  fierce  son  of  the  desert,  baked  red  with 
Syrian  light,  leaped  down  upon  him,  and  fell 
on  his  neck  and  wept.  And  Esau  said, 
"  What  meanest  thou  by  all  this  drove  which 
I  met?"  and  Jacob  said,  "These  are  to  find 
grace  in  the  sight  of  my  lord  ;  "  then  Esau 
said,  "  I  have  enough,  my  brother  ;  keep  that 
thou  hast  unto  thyself."  O  mighty  prince, 
didst  thou  remember  thy  mother's  guile,  the 
skins  upon  thy  hands  and  neck,  and  the  lie 
put  upon  the  patriarch,  as,  blind  with  years, 
he  sat  up  in  his  bed  snuffing  the  savory  meat? 
An  ugly  memory,  I  should  f;\ncy  ! 

Commend  me  to  Shakspeare's  vagabonds, 
the  most  delighfiil  in  the  world  !  His  sweet- 
blooded  and  liberal  nature  blossomed  into 
all  fine  generosities  as  naturally  as  an  apple- 
bough  into  pink  blossoms  and  odours.  Lis- 
ten to  Gonsalvo  talking  to  the  shipwrecked 
Milan  nobles  camped  for  the  night  in  Pros- 
pero's  isle,  full  of  sweet  voices,  with  Ariel 
shooting  through  the  enchanted  air  like  a 
falling   star :  — 


On    Vagabonds.  335 

"  Had  I  the  plantation  of  this  isle,  my  lord, 
r  the  commonwealth  I  would  by  contraries 
Execute  all  things ;  for  no  kind  of  traffic 
Would  I  admit ;  no  name  of  magistrate  ; 
Letters  should  not  be  known ;  riches,  poverty, 
And  use  of  service  none  ;  contract,  succession, 
Bourne,  bound  of  land,  tilth,  title,  vineyard  none ; 
No  use  of  metal  coin,  or  wine,  or  oil ; 
No  occupation  —  all  men  idle  —  all ! 
And  women  too,  but  innocent  and  pure  ; 
No  sovereignty  ; 

All  things  in  common  nature  should  produce, 
Without  sweat  or  endurance ;  treason,  felony. 
Sword,  pike,  knife,  gun,  or  need  of  any  engine 
Would  I  not  have;  but  nature  would  bring  forth 
Of  its  own  kind  all  foison,  all  abundance. 
To  feed  my  innocent  people. 
I  would  with  such  perfection  govern,  sir, 
To  excel  the  golden  age." 

\\'hat  think  you  of  a  world  after  that  pat- 
tern? "As  You  Like  it"  is  a  vagabond 
play,  and,  verily,  if  there  waved  in  any  wind 
that  blows  a  forest  peopled  like  Arden's,  with 
an  exiled  king  drawing  the  sweetest,  human- 
est  lessons  from  misfortune  ;  a  melancholy 
Jacques,  stretched  by  the  river  bank,  moral- 
ising on  the  bleeding  deer ;  a  fair  Rosalind, 
chanting  her  saucy  cuckoo-song ;  fools  like 
Touchstone  —  not  like  those  of  our  acquaint- 
ance, my  friends;  and  the  whole  place,  from 
centre  to  circumference,  filled  with  mighty 
oak  bolls,  all  carven  with  lovers'  names,  — 
if  such  a  forest  waved  in  wind,  I  say,  I  would. 


336  On    Vagabonds. 

be  my  worldly  prospects  what  they  might, 
pack  up  at  once,  and  cast  in  my  lot  with  that 
vagabond  company.  For  there  I  should  find 
more  gallant  courtesies,  finer  sentiments, 
completer  innocence  and  happiness,  more 
wit  and  wisdom,  than  I  am  like  to  do  here 
even,  though  I  search  for  them  from  shep- 
herd's cot  to  king's  palace.  Just  to  think 
how  those  people  lived  !  Carelessly  as  the 
blossoming  trees,  happily  as  the  singing 
birds,  time  measured  only  by  the  patter  of 
the  acorn  on  the  fruitful  soil  !  A  world  with- 
out debtor  or  creditor,  passing  rich,  yet  with 
never  a  doit  in  its  purse,  with  no  sordid  care, 
no  regard  for  appearances ;  nothing  to  oc- 
cupy the  young  but  love-making,  nothing 
to  occupy  the  old  but  perusing  the  "  sermons 
in  stones "  and  the  musical  wisdom  which 
dwells  in  "  running  brooks "  !  But  Arden 
forest  draws  its  sustenance  from  a  poet's 
brain  :  the  light  that  sleeps  on  its  leafy  pil- 
lows is  "  the  light  that  never  was  on  sea  or 
shore."  \Ve  but  please  and  tantalise  our- 
selves with  beautiful  dreams. 

The  children  of  the  brain  become  to  us 
actual  existences,  more  actual,  indeed,  than 
the  people  who  impinge  upon  us  in  the 
street,  or  who  li\'e  next  door.  We  are  more 
intimate  with  Shakspeare's  men  and  women 


On    Vagabonds.  337 

than  we  are  with  our  contemporaries,  and 
they  are,  on  the  whole,  better  company. 
They  are  more  beautiful  in  form  and  feature, 
and  they  express  themselves  in  a  way  that 
the  most  gifted  strive  after  in  vain.  What  if 
Shakspeare's  people  could  walk  out  of  the 
play- books  and  settle  down  upon  some  spot 
of  earth  and  conduct  life  there?  There 
would  be  found  humanity's  whitest  wheat, 
the  world's  unalloyed  gold.  The  very  winds 
could  not  visit  the  place  roughly.  No  king's 
court  could  present  you  such  an  array. 
Where  else  could  we  find  a  philosopher  like 
Hamlet?  a  friend  like  Antonio?  a  witty 
fellow  like  Mercutio?  where  else  Imogen's 
piquant's  face?  Portia's  gravity  and  womanly 
sweetness?  Rosalind's  true  heart  and  silvery 
laughter?  Cordelia's  beauty  of  holiness? 
'I'hese  would  form  the  centre  of  the  court, 
but  the  purlieus,  how  many-coloured  !  Mal- 
volio  would  walk  mincingly  in  the  sunshine 
there ;  Autolycus  would  filch  purses.  Sir 
Andrew  Aguecheek  and  Sir  Toby  Belch 
would  be  eternal  boon  companions.  And 
as  Falstaff  sets  out  homeward  from  the 
tavern,  the  portly  knight  leading  the  revel- 
lers like  a  three-decker  a  line  of  frigates, 
they  are  encountered  by  Dogberry,  who 
summons  them  to  stand  and  answer  to  the 


338  On    Vagabonds. 

watch  as  they  are  honest  men.  If  Mr.  Dick- 
ens's characters  were  gathered  together,  they 
would  constitute  a  town  populous  enough 
to  send  a  representative  to  Parliament.  Let 
us  enter.  The  style  of  architecture  is  un- 
paralleled. There  is  an  individuality  about 
the  buildings.  In  some  obscure  way  they 
remind  one  of  human  faces.  There  are 
houses  sly-looking,  houses  wicked-looking, 
houses  pompous-looking.  Heaven  bless  us  ! 
what  a  rakish  pump  !  what  a  self-important 
town-hall  !  what  a  hard-hearted  prison  !  The 
dead  walls  are  covered  with  advertisements 
of  Mr.  Sleary's  circus.  Newman  Noggs 
comes  shambling  along.  Mr.  and  the  Misses 
Pecksniff  come  sailing  down  the  sunny  side 
of  the  street.  Miss  Mercy's  parasol  is  gay  ; 
papa's  neck-cloth  is  white,  and  terribly 
starched.  Dick  Swiveller  leans  against  a 
wall,  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  a  primrose 
held  between  his  teeth,  contemplating  the 
opera  of  Punch  and  Judy,  which  is  being 
conducted  under  the  management  of  Messrs. 
Codlings  and  Short.  You  turn  a  corner  and 
you  meet  the  coffin  of  little  Paul  Dombey 
borne  along.  Who  would  have  thought  of 
encountering  a  funeral  in  this  place  ?  In  the 
afternoon  you  hear  the  rich  tones  of  the 
organ  from  Miss  La  Creevy's  first  floor,  for 


On    Vagabonds.  339 

Tom  Pinch  has  gone  to  live  there  now  ;  and 
as  you  know  all  the  people  as  you  know  your 
own  brothers  and  sisters,  and  consequently 
require  no  letters  of  introduction,  you  go  up 
and  talk  wiih  the  dear  old  fellow  about  all 
his  friends  and  your  friends,  and  towards 
evening  he  takes  your  arm,  and  you  walk  out 
to  see  poor  Nelly's  grave  —  a  place  which 
he  visits  often,  and  which  he  dresses  with 
flowers  with  his  own  hands.  I  know  this  is 
the  idlest  dreaming,  but  all  of  us  have  a 
sympathy  with  the  creatures  of  the  drama 
and  the  novel.  Around  the  hardest  cark  and 
toil  lies  the  imaginative  world  of  the  poets 
and  romancists,  and  thither  we  sometimes 
escape  to  snatch  a  mouthful  of  serener  air. 
There  our  best  lost  feelings  have  taken  a 
human  shape.  We  suppose  that  boyhood 
with  its  impulses  and  enthusiasms  has  sub- 
sided with  the  gray  cynical  man  whom  we 
have  known  these  many  years.  Not  a  bit  of 
it.  It  has  escaped  into  the  world  of  the  poet, 
and  walks  a  love-flushed  Romeo  in  immortal 
youth.  We  suppose  that  the  JNIary  of  fifty 
years  since,  the  rofee-bud  of  a  girl  that  crazed 
our  hearts,  blossomed  mto  the  spouse  of 
Jenkins,  the  stockbroker,  and  is  now  a 
grandmother.  Not  at  all.  She  is  Juliet  lean- 
ing from  the  balcony,  or  Portia  talking  on 


340  On    Vagabonds. 

the  moonlight  lawns  at  Belmont.  There 
walk  the  shadows  of  our  former  selves.  All 
that  Time  steals  he  takes  thither ;  and  to 
live  in  that  world  is  to  live  in  our  lost  youth, 
our  lost  generosities,  illusions,  and  romances. 
In  middle-class  life,  and  in  the  professions, 
when  a  standard  or  ideal  is  tacitly  set  up,  to ' 
which  every  member  is  expected  to  conform 
on  pain  of  having  himself  talked  about,  and 
wise  heads  shaken  over  him,  the  quick  feel- 
ings of  the  vagabond  are  not  frequently 
found.  Yet,  thanks  to  Nature,  who  sends 
her  leafage  and  flovverage  up  through  all 
kinds  of  dehis,  and  who  takes  a  blossomy 
possession  of  ruined  walls  and  desert  places, 
it  is  never  altogether  dead  !  And  of  vaga- 
bonds, not  the  least  delightful  is  he  who  re- 
tains poetry  and  boyish  spirits  beneath  the 
crust  of  a  ])rofession.  Mr.  Carlyle  commends 
*'  central  fire,"  and  very  properly  commends 
it  most  when  "  well  covered  in."  In  the 
case  of  a  professional  man,  this  "central 
fire  "  does  not  manifest  itself  in  wasteful  ex- 
plosiveness,  but  in  secret  genial  heat,  visible 
in  fruits  of  charity  and  pleasant  humour.  The 
physician  who  is  a  humourist  commends  him- 
self doubly  to  a  sick-bed.  His  patients  are 
C.S  much  indebted  for  their  cure  to  his  smile, 
his  voice,  and  a  certain  irresistible  .healthful- 


On    Vagabonds.  34 1 

ness  that  surrounds  him,  as  they  are  to  his 
skill  and  his  prescriptions.  The  lawyer  who  is 
a  humourist  is  a  man  of  ten  thousand.  How 
easily  the  worldly-wise  face,  puckered  over  a 
stiff  brief,  relaxes  into  the  lines  of  laughter. 
He  sees  many  an  evil  side  of  human  nature, 
he  is  familiar  with  slanders  and  injustice,  all 
kinds  of  human  bitterness  and  falsity ;  but 
neither  his  hand  nor  his  heart  becomes 
"  imbued  with  that  it  works  in  ;  "  and  the 
little  admixture  of  acid,  inevitable  from  his 
circumstances  and  mode  of  life,  but  height- 
ens the  flavour  of  his  humour.  But  of  all 
humourists  of  the  professional  class,  I  prefer 
the  clergyman,  especially  if  he  is  well  stricken 
in  years,  and  has  been  anchored  all  his  life 
in  a  country  charge.  He  is  none  of  your 
loud  wits.  There  is  a  lady-like  delicacy  in 
his  mind,  a  constant  sense  of  his  holy  office, 
which  warn  him  off  dangerous  subjects. 
This  reserve,  however,  does  but  improve  the 
quality  of  his  mirth.  What  his  humour  loses 
in  boldness,  it  gains  in  depth  and  slyness. 
And  as  the  good  man  has  seldom  the  oppor- 
tunity of  making  a  joke,  or  of  procuring  an 
auditor  who  can  understand  one,  the  dewy 
glitter  of  his  eyes,  as  you  sit  opposite  him, 
and  his  heartfelt  enjoyment  of  the  matter  in 
hand,  are  worth  going  a  considerable  way  to 


342  On    Vagabonds. 

witness.  It  is  not,  however,  in  the  profes- 
sions that  the  vagabond  is  commonly  found. 
Over  these  that  awful  and  ubiquitous  female, 
Mrs.  Grundy  —  at  once  Fate,  Nemesis,  and 
Fury  —  presides.  The  glare  of  her  eye  is 
professional  danger,  the  pointing  of  her  finger 
is  professional  death.  When  she  utters  a 
man's  name,  he  is  lost.  The  true  vagabond  is 
to  be  met  with  in  other  walks  of  life,  —  among 
actors,  poets,  painters.  These  may  grow  in 
any  way  their  nature  directs.  They  are  not 
required  to  conform  to  any  traditional  pat- 
tern. With  regard  to  the  respectabilities 
and  the  "  minor  morals,"  the  world  permits 
them  to  be  libertines.  Besides,  it  is  a  tem- 
perament peculiarly  sensitive,  or  generous, 
or  enjoying,  which  at  the  beginning  impels 
these  to  their  special  pursuits ;  and  that 
temperament,  like  everything  else  in  the 
world,  strengthens  with  use,  and  grows  with 
what  it  feeds  on.  We  look  upon  an  actor, 
sitting  amongst  ordinary  men  and  women, 
with  a  certain  curiosity,  —  we  regard  him  as 
a  creature  from  another  planet,  almost.  His 
life  and  his  world  are  quite  different  from 
ours.  The  orchestra,  the  foot-lights,  and 
the  green  baize  curtain,  divide  us.  He  is  a 
monarch  half  his  time  —  his  entrance  and  his 
exit  proclaimed  by  flourish  of  trumpet.     He 


On    Vagabonds.  343 

speaks  in  blank  verse,  is  wont  to  take  his 
seat  at  gilded  banquets,  to  drink  nothing  out 
of  a  pasteboard  goblet.  The  actor's  world 
has  a  history  amusing  to  read,  and  lines  of 
noble  and  splendid  traditions,  stretching 
back  to  charming  Nelly's  time,  and  earlier. 
The  actor  has  strange  experiences.  He  sees 
the  other  side  of  the  moon.  We  roar  at 
Grimaldi's  funny  face  :  he  sees  the  lines  of 
pain  in  it.  We  hear  Romeo  wish  to  be  "  a 
glove  upon  that  hand  that  he  might  touch 
that  cheek  :  "  three  minutes  afterwards  he 
beholds  Romeo  refresh  himself  with  a  pot  of 
porter.  We  see  the  Moor,  who  "  loved  not 
wisely,  but  too  well,"  smother  Desdemona 
with  the  nuptial  bolster :  he  sees  them  sit 
down  to  a  hot  supper.  We  always  think  of 
the  actor  as  on  the  stage  :  he  always  thinks 
of  us  as  in  the  boxes.  "  In  justice  to  the  poets 
of  the  present  day,  it  may  be  noticed  that 
they  have  improved  on  their  brethren  in 
Johnson's  time,  who  were,  according  to  Lord 
Macaulay,  hunted  by  bailiffs  and  familiar  with 
sponging- houses,  and  who,  when  hospitably 
entertained,  were  wont  to  disturb  the  house- 
hold of  the  entertainer  by  roaring  for  hot 
punch  at  four  o'clock  in  the  morning.  Since 
that  period  the  poets  have  improved  in  the 
decencies  of  life  :  they  wear  broadcloth,  and 


344  On    Vagabonds. 

settle  their  tailors'  accounts  even  as  other 
men.  At  this  present  moment  Her  Majesty's 
poets  are  perhaps  the  most  respectable  of 
Her  Majesty's  subjects.  They  are  all  teeto- 
tallers ;  if  they  sin,  it  is  in  rhyme,  and  then 
only  to  point  a  moral.'*  In  past  days  the 
poet  flew  from  flower  to  flower,  gathering 
his  honey ;  but  he  bore  a  sting,  too,  as  the 
rude  hand  that  touched  him  could  testify. 
He  freely  gathers  his  honey  as  of  old,  but 
the  satiric  sting  has  been  taken  away.  He 
lives  at  peace  with  all  men  —  his  brethren 
excepted.  About  the  true  poet  still  there  is 
something  of  the  ancient  spirit,  —  the  old 
"flash  and  outbreak  of  the  fiery  mind,"  — 
the  old  enthusiasm  and  dash  of  humourous 
eccentricity.  But  he  is  fast  disappearing  from 
the  catalogue  of  vagabonds  —  fast  getting 
commonplace,  I  fear.  Many  people  suspect 
him  of  dulness.  Besides,  such  a  crowd  of 
well-meaning,  amiable,  most  respectable  men 
have  broken  down  of  late  years  the  pales  of 
Parnassus,  and  become  scjuatters  on  the  sa- 
cred mount,  that  the  claim  of  poets  to  be  a 
peculiar  people  is  getting  disallowed.  Never 
in  this  world's  history  were  they  so  numer- 
ous ;  and  although  some  people  deny  that 
they  a;r  poets,  few  are  cantankerous  enough 
or  intrepid   enough  to  assert   that   they  are 


On    Vagabonds.  345 

vagabonds.  The  painter  is  the  most  agree- 
able of  vagabonds.  His  art  is  a  pleasant 
one  :  it  demands  some  little  manual  exer- 
tion, and  it  takes  him  at  times  into  tlie  open 
air.  It  is  pleasant,  too,  in  this,  that  lines 
and  colours  are  so  much  more  palpable  than 
words,  and  the  appeal  of  his  work  to  his 
practised  eye  has  some  satisfaction  in  it.  He 
knows  what  he  is  about.  He  does  not  alto- 
gether lose  his  critical  sense,  as  the  poet 
does,  when  familiarity  stales  his  subject,  and 
takes  the  splendour  out  of  his  images.  More- 
over, his  work  is  more  profitable  than  the 
poet's.  I  suppose  there  are  just  as  few 
great  painters  at  the  present  day  as  there 
are  great  poets  ;  yet  the  yearly  receipts  of 
the  artists  of  England  far  exceed  the  receipts 
of  the  singers.  A  picture  can  usually  be 
painted  in  less  time  than  a  poem  can  be 
wTitten.  A  second-rate  picture  has  a  certain 
market  value,  —  its  frame  is  at  least  some- 
thing. A  second-rate  poem  is  utterly  worth- 
less, and  no  one  will  buy  it  on  account  of  its 
binding.  A  picture  is  your  own  exclusive 
property  :  it  is  a  costly  article  of  furniture. 
You  hang  it  on  your  walls,  to  be  admired  by 
all  the  world.  Pictures  represent  wealth  : 
the  possession  of  them  is  a  luxury.  The 
portrait-painter  is  of  all   men  the  most  be- 


346  On    Vagabonds. 

loved.  You  sit  to  him  willingly,  and  put  on 
your  best  looks.  You  are  inclined  to  be 
pleased  with  his  work,  on  account  of  the 
strong  prepossession  you  entertain  for  his 
subject,  'lb  sit  for  one's  portrait  is  like 
being  present  at  one's  own  creation.  It 
is  an  admirable  excuse  for  egotism.  You 
would  not  discourse  on  the  falcon-like  curve 
which  distinguishes  your  nose,  or  the  sweet 
serenity  of  your  reposing  lips,  or  the  mild- 
ness of  the  eye  that  spreads  a  light  over 
vour  countenance,  in  the  presence  of  a  fellow- 
creature  for  the  whole  world ;  yet  you  do  not 
hesitate  to  express  the  most  favourable  opin- 
ion of  the  features  starting  out  on  you  from 
the  wet  canvas.  The  interest  the  painter 
takes  in  his  task  flatters  you.  And  when 
the  sittings  are  over,  and  you  behold  your- 
self hanging  on  your  own  wall,  looking  as  if 
you  could  direct  kingdoms  or  lead  armies, 
you  feel  grateful  to  the  artist.  He  ministers 
to  your  self-love,  and  you  pay  him  his  hire 
without  wincing.  Your  heart  warms  towards 
him  as  it  would  towards  a  poet  who  ad- 
dresses you  in  an  ode  of  panegyric,  the 
kindling  terms  of  which  —  a  little  astonishing 
to  your  friends  —  you  believe  in  your  heart 
of  hearts  to  be  the  simple  truth,  and,  in  the 
matter  of  expression,  not  over-coloured   in 


On    Vagabonds.  34  7 

the  very  least.  The  portrait- painter  has  a 
shrewd  eye  for  character,  and  is  usually  the 
best  anecdote-monger  in  the  world.  His  craft 
brings  him  into  contact  with  many  faces, 
and  he  learns  to  compare  them  curiously, 
and  to  extract  their  meanings.  He  can  in- 
terpret wrinkles ;  he  can  look  through  the 
eyes  into  the  man  ;  he  can  read  a  whole  fore- 
gone history  in  the  lines  about  the  mouth. 
Besides,  from  the  good  understanding  which 
usually  exists  between  the  artist  and  his 
sitter,  the  latter  is  inclined  somewhat  to  un- 
bosom himself;  little  things  leak  out  in  con- 
versation, not  mucli  in  themselves,  but 
pregnant  enough  to  the  painter's  sense,  who 
pieces  them  together,  and  constitutes  a  tol- 
erably definite  image.  The  man  who  paints 
your  face  knows  you  better  than  your  inti- 
mate friends  do,  and  has  a  clearer  knowledge 
of  your  amiable  weaknesses,  and  of  the  se- 
cret motives  which  influence  your  conduct, 
than  you  oftentimes  have  yourself.  A  good 
portrait  is  a  kind  of  biography,  and  neither 
painter  nor  biographer  can  carry  out  his 
task  satisfactorily  unless  he  be  admitted  be- 
hind the  scenes.  I  think  that  the  landscape 
painter,  who  has  acquired  sufficient  mastery 
in  his  art  to  satisfy  his  own  critical  sense, 
and  who  is  appreciated  enough  to  find  pur- 


348  On    I'agabonds. 

chasers,  and  thereby  to  keep  the  wolf  from 
the  door,  must  be  of  all  mankind  the  happiest. 
Other  men  live  in  cities,  bound  down  to 
some  settled  task  and  order  of  life  ;  but  he  is 
a  nomad,  and  wherever  he  goes  "  Beauty 
pitches  her  tents  before  him."  He  is  smit- 
ten by  a  passionate  love  for  Nature,  and  is 
privileged  to  follow  her  into  her  solitary 
haunts  and  recesses.  Nature  is  his  mistress, 
and  he  is  continually  making  declarations' 
of  his  love.  When  one  thinks  of  ordinary 
occupations,  how  one  envies  him,  flecking 
his  oak-tree  boll  with  sunlight,  tinging  with 
rose  the  cloud  of  the  morning  in  which  the 
lark  is  hid,  making  the  sea's  swift  fringe  of 
foaming  lace  outspread  itself  on  the  level 
sands,  in  which  the  pebbles  gleam  forever 
wet.  The  landscape  painter's  memory  is  in- 
habited by  the  fairest  visions,  —  dawn  burn- 
ing on  the  splintered  peaks  that  the  eagles 
know,  while  the  valleys  beneath  are  yet  filled 
with  uncertain  light ;  the  bright  blue  morn 
stretching  over  miles  of  moor  and  mountain  ; 
the  slow  up-gathering  of  the  bellied  thun- 
der-cloud ;  summer  lakes,  and  cattle  knee- 
deep  in  them  ;  rustic  bridges  forever  crossed 
by  old  women  in  scarlet  cloaks ;  old-fash- 
ioned waggons  resting  on  the  scrubby  com- 
mon, the  waggoner   lazy  and  wayworn,  the 


On    Vagabonds.  349 

dog  couched  on  the  ground,  its  tongue  hang- 
ing out  in  the  heat ;  boats  drawn  up  on  the 
shore  at  sunset;  the  fisher's  children  look- 
ing seawards,  the  red  light  full  on  their 
dresses  and  faces  ;  farther  back,  a  clump  of 
cottages,  with  bait-baskets  about  the  door, 
and  the  smoke  of  the  evening  meal  coiling 
up  into  the  coloured  air.  These  things  are 
forever  with  him.  Beauty,  which  is  a  luxury 
to  other  men,  is  his  daily  food.  Happy  vaga- 
bond, who  lives  the  whole  summer  through 
in  the  light  of  his  mistress's  face,  and  who 
does  nothing  the  whole  winter  except  recall 
the  splendour  of  her  smiles  ! 

The  vagabond,  as  I  have  explained  and 
sketched  him,  is  not  a  man  to  tremble  at,  or 
avoid  as  if  he  wore  contagion  in  his  touch. 
He  is  upright,  generous,  innocent,  is  con- 
scientious in  the  performance  of  his  duties ; 
and  if  a  little  eccentric  and  fond  of  the  open 
air,  he  is  full  of  good  nature  and  mirthful 
charity.  He  may  not  make  money  so 
rapidly  as  you  do,  but  I  cannot  help  think- 
ing that  he  enjoys  life  a  great  deal  more. 
The  quick  feeling  of  life,  the  exuberance  of 
animal  spirits  which  break  out  in  the 
traveller,  the  sportsman,  the  poet,  the 
painter,  should  be  more  generally  diffused. 
We    should  be    all    the    better  and  all    the 


35 o  On    Vagabonds. 

happier  for  it.  Life  ought  to  be  freer, 
heartier,  more  enjoyable  than  it  is  at  present. 
If  the  professional  fetter  must  be  worn,  let 
it  be  worn  as  lightly  as  possible.  It  should 
never  be  permitted  to  canker  the  limbs. 
We  are  a  free  people,  —  we  have  an  un- 
shackled press,  —  we  have  an  open  platform, 
and  can  say  our  say  upon  it,  no  king  or 
despot  making  us  afraid.  We  send  repre- 
sentatives to  Parliament ;  the  franchise  is 
always  going  to  be  extended.  All  this  is 
very  fine,  and  we  do  well  to  glory  in  our 
privileges  as  Britons.  But,  although  we  en- 
joy greater  political  freedom  than  any  other 
people,  we  are  the  victims  of  a  petty  social 
tyranny.  We  are  our  own  despots,  —  we 
tremble  at  a  neighbour's  whisper.  A  man 
may  say  what  he  likes  on  a  public  platform, 
—  he  may  publish  whatever  opinion  he 
chooses,  —  but  he  dare  not  wear  a  peculiar 
fashion  of  hat  on  the  street,  l^ccentricity 
is  an  outlaw.  Public  opinion  blows  like 
the  east  wind,  blighting  bud  and  blossom 
on  the  human  bough.  As  a  consequence  of 
all  this,  society  is  losing  picturesqueness  and 
variety,  —  we  are  all  growing  up  after  one 
pattern.  In  other  matters  than  architecture 
past  time  may  be  represented  by  the  won- 
derful ridge  of  the  Old  Town  of  Edinburgh, 


On    Vagabonds.  35 1 

where  everything  is  individual  and  charac- 
teristic :  the  present  time  by  the  streets  and 
squares  of  the  New  Town,  where  every- 
thing is  gray,  cold,  and  respectable  ;  where 
every  house  is  the  other's  alter  ego.  It  is 
true  that  life  is  healthier  in  the  formal 
square  than  in  the  piled-up  picturesqueness 
of  the  Canongate,  —  quite  true  that  sanitary 
conditions  are  better  observed,  —  that  pure 
water  flows  through  every  tenement  like 
blood  through  a  human  body,  —  that  day- 
light has  free  access,  and  that  the  apart- 
ments are  larger  and  higher  in  the  roof. 
But  every  gain  is  purchased  at  the  expense  of 
some  loss  ;  and  it  is  best  to  combine,  if  pos- 
sible, the  excellences  of  the  old  and  the  new. 
By  all  means  retain  the  modern  breadth  of 
light,  and  range  of  space  ;  by  all  means  have 
water  plentiful,  and  bed-chambers  ventilated, 
—  but  at  the  same  time  have  some  little 
freak  of  fancy  without,  —  some  ornament 
about  the  door,  some  device  about  the  win- 
dow,—  something  to  break  the  cold,  gray, 
stony  uniformity ;  or,  to  leave  metaphor, 
which  is  always  dangerous  ground,  —  for  1 
really  don't  wish  to  advocate  Ruskinism  and 
the  Gothic,  —  it  would  be  better  to  have, 
along  with  our  modern  enlightenment,  our 
higher  tastes  and  purer  habits,  a  greater  indi- 


352  On    Vagabonds. 

viduality  of  thought  and  manner ;  better, 
while  retaining  all  that  we  have  gained,  that 
harmless  eccentricity  should  be  respected, — 
that  every  man  should  be  allowed  to  grow 
in  his  own  way,  so  long  as  he  does  not  in- 
fringe on  the  rights  of  his  neighbour,  or  in- 
solently thrust  himself  between  him  and  the 
sun.  A  little  more  air  and  light  should  be 
let  in  upon  life.  I  should  think  the  world 
has  stood  long  enough  under  the  drill  of 
Adjutant  Fashion.  It  is  hard  work;  the 
posture  is  wearisome,  and  Fashion  is  an  aw- 
ful martinet,  and  has  a  quick  eye,  and  comes 
down  mercilessly  on  the  unfortunate  wight 
who  cannot  square  his  toes  to  the  approved 
pattern,  or  who  appears  upon  parade  with 
a  darn  in  his  coat,  or  with  a  shoulder-belt 
insufficiently  pipe-clayed.  It  is  killing  work. 
Suppose  we  try  "  standing  at  ease  "  for  a 
little  ! 


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